ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION
by evan como
Summary: Season One: After the events of
1. Introduction: Author's Notes

ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  
  


Introduction

  
  
  
  


The idea for this story came to me right after the final sentence for "Disruptor". I sanded my hands together and thought, 'cool!'. I completed "Aurora" and realized how much more this story could be and, by the time "On The Road to Understanding" was uploaded, I couldn't wait to start.

Well, actually, I had started, with some of the set pieces for "On the Road Towards Reconciliation" already complete. I knew that I wanted to take Cordy, Wes, and Angel up the coast -- *way* up the coast and why. I pretty much knew who the characters were going to be and what they'd be doing. Although, with a 13-page outline, you'd think I would have a handle on that.

I started typing.

I typed for a month.

I gave up.

I completed two long fics in the meantime and a couple of shorties. The scope of this piece had daunted me to no end. Until, one day, out of the clear blue I realized that I'd not only forgotten one voice, there were *two* missing voices, to be exact. 

For those of you familiar with my work, "On the Road Towards Reconciliation" will tie up some loose ends and reintroduce a few OFC's. If you've never read me before, not to worry - I'm writing this as a stand-alone piece. There's gonna be a lot of stuff going on, though; hence, the chaptering format.

Season Two of **_Angel: The Series_** is almost complete as I post Chapter One, but before I could work on any more of my Chapter Two stories, I needed to get "...Reconciliation" done. This is the first time that I've begun posting before finalizing and I'm estimating this story to clock into the 20-chapter range, if not a little longer. 

IMPORTANT: As the story moves along, the subject matter will become more intense and the rating will change on fanfiction.net to an NC-17. On my website, Angel's Journal, this story will receive the rating of R-17 from start to finish.

Three children will die during the course of this piece. While one of those deaths is canon, my take on it is not. This is a deeper characterization of the Angel that I write, expanding on the snapshots of Liam's life from "Blindsided: Angel's Nightmare", "Angel P.I.," and "Closure". The baby that took its first breath in 1727 was an innocent; before that breath was extinguished in 1753 he'd been excluded from Grace.

Before taking a crack at Angelus, I had to know why that was.

Nothing in this story is meant to offend and I'm not attempting to rankle anyone's sensibilities, nor do I want to sensationalize. My e-box is always open for intelligent discussion, for smoothing over rough spots, for explanations and motives.

As always, big luv to my fic friends, especially Wiseblood and Cam who've 'listened' to me moan about how impossibly difficult this story is to pen. Although Ebonbird is way busy, I still hear E's voice. Serious ups to Mike Donovan for the Beta, for keeping the story coherent and readworthy. And lastly, too much gratitude towards The Creative Team, helmed by Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt for stoking my imagination and sparkling my dreams.

e.c.   
17 March 2001   


OK. big swallow> Without further adieu ...   



	2. Chapter One: Going Away Back

On The Road Towards Reconciliation -- Chapter One: Going Away Back   
Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's.

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A."

  
  
  
  


**ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION**   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  


Chapter One   
  


Ago: 

The child, holding onto the pew in front of him, sanded his feet over the limestone floor. The hand that latched onto his right shoulder at the conclusion of the congregation's prayer promptly forced him back into his seat.

The throats of his polished black calf boots had been laced too tightly where they hugged his arch. Brand new and knotted with a precise bow at their tops, each boot exactly mirrored its mate -- miniature examples of an expert cobbler's patience and talent. Their fleeced-stuffed toes would eventually become less compact as the feet they were custom-made for inched into their lengths.

Right. Left. Right and left. They were shiny, almost patent-looking; and they weren't hand-me-downs. The left one actually had a smudge across the toe where he'd kicked at an uncooperative stone lodged in the church's dirt pathway, but one had to look really hard to see it. One had to *squint* to even figure out where such a smudge might be. It definitely wasn't a scratch, although...

It looked like a scratch when he raised his foot high enough. Compared to the right toe... It *was* a scratch! Deducing it was best not to keep them both together, he continued swinging them right, then left; right, right, then left, left. With the pew's edge rounding precisely under his knees, he didn't shimmy forward even when his legs swung independently of one another.

Another nudge at his left side... And he ignored that one just like he'd ignored the others. The vise-like clamp just above his right kneecap couldn't be denied, though. And it hurt!

He sheepishly looked up and into the stern face of the gripping woman. Satisfied that his legs had been stilled, she raised her cruel fingers to her face. Her silent direction, reinforced from outside by the howl of an approaching storm, was done with military precision: EYES FORWARD!

Following orders, he noticed the processional's smoke still wafting above the congregation, hazing the view of the high ornate pulpit. The Priest, his robe of finest Irish linen, his chasuble of royal purple Chinese silk, the large crucifix around his neck in gold -- heavy and polished to a high sheen, conducted the service in a monotone pitch.

_"... Draconis ... dirum caput ... ducemque cum rebellibus ... fulminat ... "_

A multitude of candles flickered. Their flames, tossed about by the cathedral's criss-crossing drafts, bobbed like the many heads attempting to stay awake during the formal Mass. He looked to distinguish the candle his family had lighted prior to the service, but there were too many and the distance was too far. That, and every time he thought he could make out theirs, another bolt of far-off lightning ignited the stain-glass windows and illuminated all their glorious color, distracting him.

The Virgin posed in her archway, her immobile face carved with unrelenting serenity. Under one brown-eye's scrutiny, she appeared bored

_" ... Princeps gloriosissime ... memor nostri ... ubique semper ... precare pro nobis ..."_

Very bored.

_"In conspectus Angeleorum psallam tibi, Deus meus:"_

_"Adorabo ad templum sanctum tuum, et confitebor nomini tuo,"_ he responded with the congregation, taking care with his pronunciation.

He hid his self-congratulatory smile by looking up at the chandelier hanging nearly directly overhead. The heavy chain that moored it to the ceiling was dark, as black as the boughs shoring the steepled roof. There were eight, nine, ten, and some more (because he could only count to ten) tapers mounted evenly around its wheel shape, some of which smoked. Most of them burned cleanly, though, the mid-vertical height protecting them from the central draft. He kept expecting melting wax to drip onto the shoulders of the faithful but, after checking closely, all shoulders in the vicinity continued to remain drip-free.

He leaned forward and looked over his knees, scrubbing his chin against the nubby weave of his breeches. That left toe was definitely scratched but it wasn't his fault. That rock should've obeyed his will.

Two fingers attacked from behind and, pinching his neck, painfully plucked him up straight.

_"Oremus ... nostis infunde... passionem eius et crucem... "_

While "stay still!" was hoarsely cautioned into his left ear, he raised his shoulder in protest. The brown eyes belonging to the issuant returned forward before rolling sideways and down, giving an appropriate warning all their own. Still, they were filled with amusement and just a hint of jealousy.

Simultaneously, the five and eight year-old boys blinked at each other.

He enthusiastically clutched his older brother's arm a little tighter and turned into it. His nose rutted the sleeve's center cable, sniffing at the pleasant mélange of wool and adolescent perspiration.

The aroma surrounding them -- the layers of incense, stale perfume and rank body odors -- was thick. A briny scent waved from the pew behind and he twisted to find it almost visibly haloing a row of dark-complected foreigners, their sea-worn faces raised attentively. Turning from them he caught sight -- just beyond the woman with the unforgiving clamp for a hand -- of the man seated next to her, his handsome features pious and his lustrous dark hair tied at his nape with a fine red ribbon.

That red ribbon was tied into a bow identical to the one on his boots. It was a sturdy bow and didn't give way to his best tug. He looked forward to the day he would be able to tie such a fine lace; which reminded him, if he kicked at a rock with his right toe, he could make his boots match again.

"Liam!"

At the name hushed into his neck, the child giggled maniacally. It wasn't his fault! He couldn't help it if he was so ticklish right there...   
...

"Are you awake?" she asked after his vain attempt to hunker into a blanket that wouldn't budge more than a fraction of an inch nearer his chin.

The early morning assaulted his senses and, in his first awareness, he inwardly cursed at the commotion in an attempt to return to the blissful void that offered some respite from his daily existence. The scents around him -- his own sweetly ripe body among them -- gathered in the back of his throat and he winced. Numbness needled the nerves along the bridge of his nose in instant cognizance that he hadn't burrowed deeply enough to ward off his surrogate lair's crisp temperature.

After he pretended not to hear her she resettled, the weight of her head defined by a chin-point depression upon the center of his chest. She sighed and clenched his torso a little tighter in resignation.

Lifting his eyelids ever so slightly, through the mesh of his dark lashes he judged his surroundings and calculated the degree of light since his arrival. He hadn't been there long and she'd probably crept in shortly thereafter, waiting for him to fall asleep before she joined him.

The high round of his angular cheeks slightly obstructed his study of her patience while he wondered what could possibly go on in her mind that would cause her eyes to roll so furiously in one direction, so humorously in the opposite. Spindly dark-brown curls framed the heart-shaped face that was a study of moods -- brooding then relaxed, concerned then amused.

He squinted away a gathered pool; forced his heart to still.

And then he pounced.

Startled, she squealed. Peals of her laughter resounded throughout the rafters as joy burbled from the depths of her being. Thrashing wildly, she pretended to fight back, mock-beating him about his shoulders. He mouthed his affectionate growls into her neck until her resistance, as it had every morning since their ritual had begun, concluded with her lips planting a sloppy kiss on the side of his head. Her arms encircled his neck.

He spilled her onto his mat and she carefreely rolled from his arms. Looping one of her brunette ringlets from her cheek and onto his finger, he gazed down on her, captivated by the upturned corners of her lips. He responded in kind when she reached to play with his eyebrow, delighted. An enthusiastic shrug of her shoulders accompanied an even wider smile.

The smile did little to comfort him, however, once the penalty for the burst of activity seized him. He dove aside in one swift movement.

Bile singed the back of his throat and his chill body became bathed in the contradictory warmth of his own foul perspiration. Shaking, he managed to smear off a strand of blood-tinged saliva with the back of his hand before plummeting onto his back, his arms spread wide in concession.

A moan clearing his chattering teeth threatened to evoke another retching fit. When she motioned to wipe his mouth with the edge of her apron he pushed her hand away, unable to ignore the sallow tinge of his flesh in comparison to hers.

"You're getting worse," she stated simply, tugging the blanket from under his hip in order to wrap him with it. She removed her velvet-collared coat and wadded it into a pillow to tuck under his neck.

A tiny hand swept across his fevered brow, slender fingers untangled his unkempt hair. She pulled his collar together in an effort to modestly cover a bruise along the length of his throat.

"I'll pray harder. God will help me make you better," she spoke, her conviction even more evident with a deep horizontal crease above her eyebrows which significantly aged her youthful features.

"I don't deserve -- " Little fingertips playfully pinched his lips closed before continuing to explore the curve of his face, the fringe of his hair; circling the maze of his lobes to settle him softly. To calm him. To love --

And heal him.

She struggled with each of his leaden arms and tucked them under the loomed throw. "Shhhhhhhhh," she cooed. Like her voice, her brown eyes were flooded with compassion.

Fear set him ashiver. "There's nothing you can do," he sobbed, focusing on her affection. "I've always been doomed. The Messenger keeps calling my name."

She reared back and sat on her heels. Incredulity sharpened her features. "*I* call your name, Liam. I don't recall speaking such wickedness. Haven't I only spoken of pleasantries? Of wonderous things and how we'll always be together?"

"Y-- Yes." Before boring deeper into his skull, an unpleasant spasm pained the muscles behind his eyes, momentarily blinding him.

"Your listening to this messenger would turn me into a liar."

He blinked at her, made speechless by her simple logic. The way her brows arched optimistically made him want to believe her. He motioned to reach for her, to gather her into his chest but "Kathy" was all he could manage to say before a violent tug of his innards drew him fetal.

"KATHLEEN!" preceded the creak/bang of the stable's door.

"KATHLEEN!" the young woman yelled again.

Kathy bent over swiftly and graced Liam's cheek with a kiss. "Rest well, _Deartháir_," she whispered, the care in her voice nearly smothered by another shout of her name.

She cleared a few pieces of straw from beneath his chin, pulled the blanket above his shivering frame and over his head. "I won't tell them you're here." Her muffled whisper relayed her understanding of exactly how overwhelming sound was to him.

Their voices were muffled, but understandable. Anna, the house servant, questioned the whereabouts of Kathy's coat before continuing to scold, "... and the straw in your hair! Kathleen! Your mother will give me a whigging with you looking like this! You're freezing!"

"Da said the colt's on its way."

"Colt? Kathleen! I've heard him tell you no less than a dozen times that the colt will be here when it's born and not a moment sooner than nature's intentions. You staring at the mare will only make her nervous."

A few chickens clucked at the stable entrance. The mare whinnied once and the hens to squawked in rebuttal before returning outside.

"You've seen your brother?" was started in the mare's direction, completed in the opposite.

"I've been keeping company with Laoi."

Anna's silence reproached Kathy's cryptic reply. "Well, if you do -- " the young woman's voice, directed towards the stable's loft, grew louder, "the Missus is receiving the Sister this afternoon and it's best if he waits until the visit is done before he strays back into the house."

To the silence that accompanied her suggestion, she lowered her voice. "You'll let Master Liam know?"

"If I see him," Kathy replied.

The stable door creaked closed, but remained unlatched. Liam concentrated on the lone spot of warmth that Kathy's lips had graced him with as he slipped back into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness...   
  
  


July, 2000 

Angel detected a slight shift of direction and a fluctuation in cabin pressure before hearing the landing gear hydraulics engage. He woke abruptly, disoriented. Even dreaming, he'd been acutely aware of the flight's trajectory -- his instinctive sonar had been following the slipstream of life echoing up from below.   


From back on earth. Where he belonged. Not up in the heavens.

The stewardess quickly retracted her hand from the pillow she had attempted to readjust behind the passenger's head.

"He's not good with flying," Cordelia explained to the woman's startled expression.

An uneasy smile was the only response to Cordy's comment. The attendant glanced from the young woman in the window seat to the slender man sitting beside her, then back to the crabby passenger whose pillow had threatened to plop into the aisle.

"Don't make excuses for me," Angel sniped at Cordelia while whipping his shoulder inward.

"We're beginning our descent," the thirty-something female stated. After motioning that the center tray table be stowed, she took one last sight-check of the trio of laps before moving to the next row of seats.

"You know, Angel," Cordelia began through gritted teeth, "you didn't have to bite my head off. If Wesley hadn't stopped you, you probably would have broken the poor woman's arm."

With the Airline Magazine's crossword puzzle complete, Wesley thumbed the head of his ball-point pen with a click and returned it to his shirt pocket. He shifted his knees to stuff the magazine into the pouch in front of him and turned his attention to his associate.

"Now, Cordelia, I think you may be exaggerating a bit. Angel --"

"Stop it!" Angel barked.

The former Watcher immediately fell silent and listened to an androgynous voice drone on about each passenger's responsibility during preparation for landing. Concerned, Wesley raised the armrest beside Angel, took the bit of fiber-fluff from the vampire's hands before it could be completely mangled and rearranged it on the cap of his shoulder.

Angel stared at the reassuring hand on his wrist. Looking up, he focused past a somber Cordelia who had taken to staring out the tiny porthole she sat next to. Pitch black,>> Angel thought to himself. Recollecting the sensation of the sticky substance on the back of his tongue, he suddenly craved a cigarette.

The last time Angel had taken a regional flight, he'd been able to smoke on board.

He slumped further into his seat and tucked his legs from out of the busy aisle while another attendant searched for unbuckled offenders. Taking the slight tug Wesley gave his sleeve as an invitation to rest his head, Angel settled his temple against the sorry excuse for a pillow that barely padded Wesley's bony shoulder.

He forced himself to relax. It wasn't that Angel minded traveling; it was just a much better experience when his mind wasn't on a separate trip.

-0-

[evancomo@netscape.net][1]

   [1]: mailto: evancomo@netscape.net?Subject=Reconciliation, Chapter 1



	3. Chapter Two: Traveling Takes Time

On The Road Towards Reconcilliation -- Chapter 2: Traveling Takes Time   
Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's.

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A."

  
  
  
  


**ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION**   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  


Chapter Two 

  
  


Sky, bright.

And beneath the glaring white heavens, scattered flocks of grazing sheep frothed the endless pasture, resembling white caps above a rolling emerald ocean.

The boy's hand husked the grass from their sheathes. He had been at the activity a while, pulling up then tossing the blades in front of him. Those that the intermittent breeze hadn't borne astray lay neatly stacked in front of his legs. His badly-scuffed boots, nearly outgrown, were tucked under his knees.

His brother made a stealthy run up from behind.

"Ow!" exclaimed Liam. He vigorously rubbed the back of his head after being playfully walloped, miserable upon realizing he'd deposited grass in his own hair.

His brother somersaulted forward, rolled up and came back around swiftly. As a natural acrobat, a sprightly follow-though kept his favorite ecru sweater stain-free while his laughter seemed to spurt through each hand-knitted cable.

"Here, Liam," said he, walking on knees and approaching with open arms. He roughly tousled the smaller boy's mane of loopy brown curls, the gesture full of apology and good-will.

Liam batted the overly attentive hands away. "Stop it!" he whined.

Which, of course, only intensified the helpfulness. Eventually they began rolling over one another and the tufted lawn -- not old enough to sound like young men, too excited to sound like anything other than young boys, eventually coming to a halt with Liam betwixt his brother and earth.

"What say you?" his brother taunted, sitting high in a dominant straddle and wriggling his fingers under Liam's chin.

Liam, panting heavily, crossed his brows. His face contorted wildly in an effort to keep from laughing. "Sto-o-pit!" he moaned.

And, immediately, the older boy did as he was told. Dismounting, he took a seat on the lawn and pulled his long legs into his chest. "Storm," he said matter-of-factly, his observant brown eyes fixed on the horizon.

Liam studied his brother intently -- only nine and he had already looked so much like their father that Liam often had to blink twice. Tall with wide shoulders and superbly coordinated, his brother was several times more agile than other boys his age. Sudden growth, in the course of one night's rest, had thinned the childhood from his face and revealed the promise of a boy's adult features, easily a match to the standards their father had set for handsomeness. The air whipped around him most curiously, rippling waves in his thick curls then leaving them be. The freckles gifted him by a long-ago summer stippled his cheeks. Dark eyes were veiled behind equally dark lashes for the briefest of moments before drifting kindly towards Liam.

Liam scratched his exact-same shaped nose and attempted to mimic the smile-not-a-smile, a wry twist of the lips that the older boy only wore while deep in thought. Grasping both knees, he rolled himself up, scooted close, leaned over and rested his head.

"The storm is coming for me, _Athairín_," Liam hushed fearfully. He wrapped both arms around his brother's. Turning his face, Liam buried his nose into the sleeve and inhaled the lanolin scent that had been roused by the meadow's moisture. How he loved that scent! The aroma of sunny afternoons spent roughhousing, rainy ones spent warming by the fire. Indulging in the moment, Liam squeezed his brother's arm. Clinging tighter than the sweater ever could, he pretended that nothing had changed.

And that nothing ever would.

The giggle wasn't mean spirited; for all intents and purposes, it could have been inspired by a tickle. "The storm is not coming for *you*, Liam," Middle Donn teased, but not so cruelly to infer Wee Donn was mistaken.

"God is coming to smite me." Liam's forehead pivoted against texture. "_Deum aliquem secur_!."

The clenched arm slipped up and out to curve around Liam's shoulders. With its mate completing the circle, he enveloped the quivering child tightly, stroked his cheek on top of the younger boy's head. "I know you were already smarter than me, Liam, but I've never understood the way you look at the simplest things." He focused on the distance in an effort to fathom whatever message the on-shoring clouds were withholding from him only to, moments later, surrender to incomprehension.

"What if the storm is *only* for rain?"

With his thoughts in a tangle, Liam couldn't answer, unable to express how there were just certain things he *knew* -- that he *felt* deep within. He threw his arms about the tranquil torso and, hiding his face, strained to hear the muffled beat of his brother's heart in the darkness...

"LIAM!"

The sweater's turtleneck scraped his chin as it was yanked down. A clump of earth collided with the leather uppers of the man's boots before exploding over his trousers' hem. Wary, the adult crouched to meet the child at eye-level.

"Storm," Liam whimpered.

With his unsteady hand, with dirt caked under his fingernails, Liam pointed at the charcoal wall that had consumed the entire Western horizon. The churning Atlantic had seemed to break free of its Creator's mandate, defying the separation of globe and firmament. Having already swallowed the late-afternoon sun, the swell's vulturous appetite soared inland.

The man's open palm neared his face and Liam recoiled (it could have been possible the boy mistook anguish for anger, being too young -- too inexperienced -- to know the difference); his bottom lip misaligned with the upper.

The man became a blur.

"Tears? *You're* the big boy now!" was harsh, perhaps spoken more roughly than intended. The man used the heel of his retracted hand to knead an eyebrow before setting it against his knee to push up to his feet.

"My God, it's not as if you haven't seen enough rain in your seven years. STAND UP!" The grip was tight around the thin upper arm, painful at the narrow neck as the man steered Liam towards the waiting surrey.

"Your mother --" a couple of swipes across his son's backside, over his shoulders, the back of his head -- "will have a conniption that you took this sweater. I cannot even see your hands, Liam!" Two palms brusquely wedged under the boy's armpits lifted him up and over the low rock wall, depositing him onto the hard upholstered bench.

Unconcerned, the harnessed roan-colored mare continued nibbling on a sprig of grass at the roadside.

"Well?"

Liam turned but didn't raise his eyes. Instead, he stared at the fingers that gripped the edge of the seat while the man ambled in from the other side. Three little fingers crept from out of the ecru sleeve, but the longer ones moved away too quickly.

The child's own hand went back into hiding.

"I declare!" The bridle jangled for punctuation. "It's as if you have me scold you on purpose! And I don't know how many times I've asked you not to venture this far from the house. What if I hadn't taken this road? As it is, Liam -- LIAM! Are you listening to me, boy? As it is, a prayer heavenward may be all that guarantees we're home before downpour.

"LIAM!"

Liam, feeling the man's brown eyes bore into the top of his head, was suddenly unable to remember if he'd worn a cap and he looked out from under the canopy to back where he'd been.

The other boy returned the forlorn regard, but only briefly, before the approaching squall gusted him asunder...

...

"...been here before, I'll be happy to show you around, but I don't know how much time we're going to have with the late dusks and early dawns."

As cool air whistled in through the car door's worn weather stripping, Angel shivered alert. At nearly 80 miles per hour, the Lumina sailed up the road, barely dipping through each Interstate pothole. An attempt to decipher the interior's strange odor proved baffling until the vampire's restless foot skittered across a Cheerio-strewn vinyl floor mat.

"Well, whatever we can do, Tibo; although our first priority will, of course, be the reason why The Powers That Be summoned Angel to Seattle in the first place," Wesley responded coolly from the back seat before animatedly outbursting, "oooooooh! Is that *the* Space Needle over there?"

Cordelia smacked Wesley's pointing finger from in front of her face. "Yes, Wesley. *The* Space Needle. Guy! you don't really want to go there, do you? It's just tall and all you see is like the water and the city and some junk. If you've been on one observational platform, you've experienced them all."

'Downtown', Angel read off the illuminated highway sign that passed overhead. He looked left for the landmark in question, only to be sidetracked by Tibo's appearance. The male's forehead was so sloped that his hawkish nose looked to begin at his hairline, a hairline from which thin straight hair had been hacked into a scraggly style. A severe underbite may have devoured the non-existent top lip; ears sprouted from just above the joint of his lantern jaw. Angel wasn't sure if the bandana and several strands of pebbles wrapping Tibo's neck were helping to conceal or accentuate its length.

When he cut a cautionary glance away from the nearly-empty Interstate, the driver startled Angel. In 3-dimensional form, Tibo looked perfectly normal.

"Warrior Angel," Tibo spoke reverently. "You're... aware. Your communion with Them was pleasant, I hope?"

Cordy strained her seat belt reaching for his shoulder. "You back from orbit, Angel?"

"It is such an honor. That I should be in the presence of both The Warrior and his Prism," the driver continued. "I am dutifully yours and whatever you require --"

Angel flinched from under Cordelia's hand and against the passenger's side door. "How long ago did we land?" he inquired curtly.

Wesley's fingertips brushed Angel's arms as the bespectacled man used the back of the seat in front of him to hoist forward. "Nearly 45 minutes ago, Angel," he explained, the headrest half-muffling his answer.

Angel tensed. He glared at the dashboard clock while it blinked another minute past 4AM. Instinctively, he looked Eastward. Although the sky was still relatively dark, pre-dawn's emergence due to their sudden far Northern locale was wreaking havoc with his internal timing. "Sunrise?"

"Still another hour away,_ Fa'am_. We're nearly at our destination." Tibo took an offramp and eased down into the waiting stop signal. "We'll be there in about ten minutes."

-0-

The texture of her collar made his nose itch, which only increased his attempt to soothe the irritation, which only meant that he had to root more deeply at the crease of her neck for some relief.

Which only caused Kathy to squeal louder. "Faster, Liam. Higher!" she exclaimed as her legs lanced outward.

She mussed his hair while he nuzzled her jaw, teethed her throat. Dizzy, he could never comprehend how Kathy managed to walk a perfectly straight line no matter how lengthy their gyratory cavorts.

Not that he'd been able to walk a straight line in over a decade, anyway.

He hugged her tighter and tried keeping himself balanced. Her free weight nearly torqued them both into the courtyard's landscaping shrubbery.

"Master Liam! Master Liam!"

He opened one eye beyond Kathy's swinging curls, every 360 degrees able to make out the figure of their approaching servant, Anna.

"Please," she hissed, pawing at the siblings in an effort to slow their boisterous spiral. "Your Mother. Sir, please!"

But, Anna's petition came too late. Her message had made little sense until a disgruntled woman emerged from the house. Wrath infused the demeanor dispatching rebuke before she dismantled her son's grip. The woman shoved at the child with one hand, wrung the servant's arm with the other and rushed the two into the house before ferociously slamming the door.

Swaying to the well, Liam reached for his balance. As he took a seat on the stone ledge, he noticed how much grayer the sky was compared to previous day. With the mid-fall sun practicing its winter hibernation, dense fog had seized reign and was governing the region malevolently. The only break in the oppressive overcast was the insurgence of ivory streaks, those from a flock of migratory birds -- graceful swans returning to Claddagh for their winter roost.

While listening to every word of the reprimand through the heavy plank door (he was sure that the nagging even penetrated the dwelling's stone walls), Liam leaned over and peered into the black depths of the well. Vertigo and his queasiness caught up with him but he managed to retch aside instead of contaminating the water; although his decency didn't matter -- in the end, there wasn't anything for him to bring up.

Still, his body went through the involuntary reaction.

He thought for a moment to fall into the waiting abyss, having heard it call his name but, after tossing his head toward the house, his morbid thoughts were dashed by Kathy -- waggling her fingers at him from behind the window before she was yanked from his sight.

-0-

"You'll be fine, Angel," in a calming British voice was the last thing Angel remembered hearing on the highway. A few pings from under the hood of the car, now parked in a residential driveway, signaled that it had been stationary for at least a minute.

The wide front door of the Queen Anne Victorian house opened before Tibo had a chance to finish shimmying his key in the deadbolt.

"You've finally arrived!"

The door opened fully and the lady of the house stepped aside. Greeting the arrivals while Tibo brushed past her with a few pieces of luggage, she emphasized, "*all* of you. Please, come in."

With Wesley waiting for Angel to bring up the rear, Cordelia crossed the threshold first. Her soft-sided case was plunked onto the hardwood entry way the second she got inside. "I'm a desert!" she proclaimed to Tibo, expecting him to understand what the letter 'C' hand-signed at her lips meant.

"Cordelia!" Wesley chided, producing his hand to the lady of the manor. "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and my associates, Cordelia Chase and Angel," he introduced, flourishing a hand at each.

"Etrix March," their hostess replied. "But the kids call me Trixie. And you've met my nephew, Tibo, already."

"*You're* the Warrior we're here to help?" Angel asked, his skepticism apparent in the tone of his voice.

"Me?" Trixie chuckled, scraping at the sudden flush of her tanned oval face with the back of her fingers. "Oh, not me. I'm an almost-old woman. No I'm just the Foster Mom, here."

She eyed an unspoken comment at Tibo before casting her gaze at the person bounding down the staircase. "*She's* the Warrior, here."

Following a sudden internal pull, Cordelia turned her head to watch Angel, with a grave expression on his face, shrink into the early morning shadows of the adjoining library. "Angel?" she petitioned, only able to manage one tentative step in his direction before turning back around, losing all interest in his reaction the instant Wesley introduced her to the Warrior, Gale.

-0-

The attic room was simply furnished, aiding the illusion of spaciousness. It was as tall as the peaked roof centered above the staircase, before narrowing into each of three sloping sides.

"It's not large, but there's a private restroom over here," Tibo pointed out, holding a door open for Angel's inspection.

But the vampire ignored the tour.

Tibo surveyed the arrangements. After nodding to himself in silent approval, he dropped a knee to the hardwood floor. With his head lowered, he respectfully assured, "I think you will be comfortable here, _Fa'am_."

"It'll do," Angel stated, facing a window. A pinch of the Venetian blinds' cord -- the slightest of movements -- caused them to clatter down; an infinitesimal tug shuttered dawn from the room. As if on cue, his body succumbed to weariness. He sagged against the wainscoted wall for support and turned around slowly.

"Get. Up," he ordered.

Uncertain, Tibo rose but remained deeply bowing from his waist. "I did not mean to offend -- " he began, his apology cropped by the hand that forced him upright. The touch, firm, was barely a touch at all. Tibo floundered to make sense of the dichotomy.

Already at the opposite end of the room, Angel closed the remaining blinds.

"Apologies. All would have been prepared for you, _Fa'am_," Tibo submitted, "but we had no idea *who* the arriving Warrior was so we didn't prepare properly, it's obvious." He paused to study Angel, fascinated by the being's silent gait while beneath his own stance Tibo heard a nearly century-old joist squeak.

His eyes widened; his chin fell; hands were steepled against his nose. "And we haven't prepared for your nourishment, either," was equal parts insight and contrition.

With his head cocked to one side, Angel's eyes discharged animosity. "I can feed myself," he seethed. "Now, go."

Tibo's head bobbed as if no longer attached to his spine with each backstep he took down the stairs. The door at the bottom closed after a prolonged click.

Stimulated by the full sun warming the gabled roof, a musty smell began permeating the room, one that even the wardrobe's cedar lining couldn't mask. The attic had been recently converted to living quarters, Angel surmised, whiffing the fresh coat of varnish that had been applied to the floor. Converted, but never lived in.

*Still* not being lived in.

He shucked off his coat and draped it across the foot of the bed before crumpling onto the brand new mattress. His hands clasped his wrists; his arms corralled his shins. Angel nestled his forehead against his knees and watched-without-watching while a mouse timidly ventured from her hiding place...

...

A gentle caress rearranged his matted tresses. Liam smiled without opening his eyes, unwilling to let his pleasant dream be sullied by reality.

"When was the last time he ate?" didn't sound like her voice. The tone was too mature, condescending, callous; too familiar, his heart wrenched. "And when was the last time this sty was cleaned? You may not have respect for yourself, but I'll not have my brother reside in such squalor!"

Liam cringed. His eyelids unfurled. "I thought I was dreaming," he muttered into the back of his hand. Unfocused, he groped for perception.

Pinned by Kathy's stern regard, the redhead fumbled to tie the bodice of her dressing gown over an uncorseted bosom. Her hastily drawstrung skirt threatened to droop off her round hips. "Liam?" she implored, blinking back tears.

"Now, now, Kathy," a familiar masculine voice placated. His inveterate chuckle rumbled nervously.

Kathy's attention softened considerably once redirected from the cowering young woman and lavished upon her brother. An affectionate inclination of her head lowered her lips to his brow. "Not dreaming, Liam," she whispered.

Predictably, using what little strength he could muster, he captured her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. "Kathy!" he repeated into the curls splashing over his face, kissing the velvet adorning her shoulders.

"Just talk to him, Liam. I know he'll let you come home," she panted against his cheek. "Please, please."

Liam bolted off the soiled cot. "Noooooooo," he protested, stretching to keep hold of her as she flew from his arms.

The chaperone set Kathy upright, adjusted her cape, and prodded her hair into proper order. "Come, Kathleen, or you'll be smelling like sin and set your father to wondering when the bakery relocated to the bog." Once satisfied with Kathy's appearance, he addressed Liam, "she's right, you know. No apologies, even, if you'd just go back."

As the blowzy female returned with a wedge of bread, Kathy pulled back her arm. She shook her head disapprovingly, berating, "you've got nothing fresher?" while being tugged out the door.

She squirmed and she reeled, stubbornly ignoring entreaties of "Kathleen! Let's go!" Half-carried away, mostly dragged across the paving stones, the soles of Kathy's shoes echoed her screeching.

Shirtless, unshod, and with his trousers barely fastened, Liam tore after his sister. "Please, Shay, a minute more! Kathy!" Catching up to the pair before they reached the sunny plaza, Liam fell onto his knees. Embracing Kathy's slender waist, he sobbed, "I miss you so much" into her tender heart.

The stubby fingers that separated the siblings, traced the cleft in Liam's chin before drawing away (that they were discreetly wiped behind his lapel did not go unnoticed). "I was barely able to arrange *this*, Liam," was tinged with uncharacteristic sorrow.

"Don't ask again."

There were comments made, comments that were hardly original. Liam didn't listen to those passing by, having memorized all their taunts. Instead, he waited at the mouth of the alley in the hopes that Kathy would find a way to return. But she'd become a speck halfway past the pub he'd spent the night in and completely disappeared into the morning crowd before everything went fuzzy...

...

Her hands on his cheeks were warm and he fell into them -- just for a moment. "Are you OK?" she asked. Her voice, overly-solicitous, was almost unrecognizable.

After he nodded, Cordelia dropped her hands and exchanged Angel's face for a pillow. "I probably woke you up, huh?" With her mouth tucked at one corner, she managed a one-sided smile. "Serious, boy! You got the *nice* room, Angel. They rearranged some of the kids but I still have to share with Wesley."

Languidly, Angel's eyes met hers. "And where *is* Wesley?"

"Training Gale." She raised one hand, absorbed with making Angel's collar fold perfectly along its stand. "You ever think about using starch? Although, on black you'd probably end up with flecky things that would make you look seborheatic."

Angel didn't notice her shudder, didn't hear Cordelia's cringing, "ew!" by being far too absorbed in his own contemplations. About ogres -- of their appearances and advances.

Of their variants.

And genders.

-0-

[evancomo@netscape.net][1]

   [1]: mailto: evancomo@netscape.net?Subject=Reconciliation, Chapter 2



	4. 

On the Road Towards Reconciliation - Chapter 3: Tempering Emotions   
Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's.

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A."

  
  
  
  


**ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION**   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  


Chapter Three 

  
  


Breath.

Breath was important; breathing supplied the rhythm and when breathing failed, rhythm usually followed suit. Gale knew that instinctively. With her eyes closed, she inhaled deeply and centered herself, concentrating on the expansion of her lungs.

She rocked back, from the ball of her front left foot to the heel of her rear right. Toes up, rounding to heel, toe to heel, toe to heel; smooth transition, knees bent, flexed; hips aligned, level; forward, back and forward, back and forward. Breath, breathing; shoulders squared, chest open, head up.

Graceful. Powerful.

Slayer.

Gale poised on her toes then sped forward, arches flexed. Three steps, one bounce, front flip, knuckle-thrust. Left, right, left, right. A back-skip, crouching low into a sitting reverse spin, back handspring, legs scissoring swiftly -- one foot as deadly as the other. Over and erect, legs apart, knees slightly bent into right arm blocking, left hand knifing. Sweeping elbow.

Concentrate, Gale. Don't zone!>>

"Good! Again!" his distant voice sieved through her focus, its mote of encouragement settling subconsciously.

Breath, breathing, speeding forward en point, arches rounded. Three steps, one bounce, front flip, knuckle-thrust. Left --

"HARDER!" the voice barked, shaking her confidence. The remedial command shouldn't have been needed.

-- right, left --

"CONCENTRATE!"

I KNOW!>>

-- right

A back-step, crouching low into a reverse sitting spin, back handspring, legs scissoring swiftly, unevenly. Over and erect, legs apart, off balance, right arm blocking, knees bending slightly, left hand knifing. Coughing. Elbow, wild.

I can do this better.>> Doubt attacked. Breath, breathing far too heavily, speeding forward, stubbing a toe, arches hurting --

The roundhouse didn't begin high enough but Gale's airborne-adjusted landing kept her footworthy. Her left fist followed-through, grazing the outside of Wesley's arm.

He stepped clear of her next maneuver and the next one, his keen sense of self-preservation kicking in faster than his fatigued reflexes. "Gale!" Wesley shouted, hopping clear of the sweeping leg. "Gale!"

The rookie Warrior, with her hair fraying out of the twisty tie at her nape, threw another sloppy elbow. Her face was flushed, animated with determination.

She combo'd two lefts and another right into the space Wesley had wisely vacated.

"GALE!"

Prepared to vault into a flying leap, she caught herself before take off. Unfortunately, inertia didn't recognize the 'all stop' and she stumbled forward, tackling Wesley off his feet and into the high-low tufted carpeting.

Blinking rapidly, she avoided being blinded by the sweat streaming off of her forehead. "Sorry," she panted into Wesley's temple after rolling onto her back. By arching her knees, she flattened the small of her back onto the floor. Her face wore a mask of relief.

Wesley gasped. "What were..." he winced, gritting his teeth as pain coiled up from the base of his spinal column, "...you..." another gasp, a hard swallow, and the spasm became bearable, "...trying -- GOD!"

Gale sprang onto her feet and peered into Wesley's face. "Wes?" she asked tentatively, wiping her brow with the hem of her oversized tee-shirt sleeve. "Did I... Hurt you?"

Three deep inhalations and their slow releases later, Wesley opened his eyes to the ceiling.

With great effort, his left arm rose and deposited the back of his wrist across his forehead, smoothing perspiration into his cropped wavy hairline. "Falling is *not* a good idea," he joked, his voice actually tinged with good humor. He smiled his best almost-dimpled smile. "I guess I'm still recuperating."

Relieved, Gale plopped onto her derriere and, pulling on toes, wedged her crossed legs beneath her thighs. "Cordy dropped me an E-mail about the explosion -- about you being in Angel's apartment when it got blasted and how Angel rescued you and... stuff. I'd imagine that, you know, 'cause it only happened a couple months ago, you'd still be pretty sore. I should have --"

Her chin dropped to her chest. "That was pretty rude of me to let you help me train. Especially since you just got off the plane and all. I could have waited for Angel."

Wesley was so glad she hadn't. He hadn't been directly involved in a training session for over a year, since before being officially dismissed as Watcher -- first by his Slayer, Buffy Summers, then by his employer, The Council of Watchers. Throughout the six months in Angel's employ, the vampire had never required Wesley's expertise, nor had he ever acknowledged the number of veiled offers for guidance or support. And, since the explosion, Wesley's attendance at Angel's assignments was no longer desired.

Instead, Wesley had become Angel's full-time bookworm.

Angel's answer to Gale's request for a sparring match had been a brusque demand to be shown to his quarters.

Far too excited to sleep, Wesley was glad to volunteer. For the first hour he'd supervised Gale's warm-up with stretching and free weights. The spacious basement, with a ceiling high enough for Wesley to walk under without stooping, was perfectly equipped for Gale. Besides weights and a heavy bag, the floor was generously padded.

Gale had everything she needed for proper training. Everything, except assistance.

Wesley raised his right hand and used the crook of his index finger to tilt her chin, directing her light brown gaze in his direction. "Don't feel responsible, Gale. I'm not hurt. And I do need the exercise. I just shouldn't... Fall. Falling," his head wobbled back and forth, "is very, very bad."

She tipped the top of her head and smiled.

Wesley's hand retreated to his chest as a rising breath caught its fall. "You're..." he paused to watch her brows lift expectantly and disappear beneath her overgrown bangs, "... dreadfully out of shape." He cringed out of tactlessness.

Gale's shoulders hitched upwards for a millisecond. "I suck as a Warrior," she remarked dryly. She shook her head negatively in response to Wesley's sudden burst of laughter. "What if...? Wesley... what if I'm obsolete? That I was good enough five centuries ago, but now all I'm doing is avoiding getting myself killed?"

With both dimples out and about, Wesley mused, "unless something's changed, you are still immortal, are you not?" His grey eyes regarded her suspiciously.

"Yeah, well..." Gale's face colored with embarrassment. "OK. So, technically I'm not exactly killable, but I can't handle this. Seriously, it's way, way, too hard. I was thinking it might be better if I just went back to being a Messenger."

She got very serious. "I was an *awesome* Messenger." She scrambled to her feet.

One-handing his 6:27AM shadow, Wesley contested, "but, you *know* this. You bore a Slayer's duties. Surely, with a diligent training regimen, you'll be able to regain your abilities and hone your inborn talents?"

After helping Wesley upright, Gale kept her hand extended, there to help him stay steady. But he politely declined -- or because his lids were squeezed so tightly, he didn't notice the gesture. Her full lips edged sideways and she started for the staircase. At the first step, she took Wesley's arm and wrapped it around her shoulders without asking if he needed help climbing, unwilling to risk a "no" for his answer.

"I'm alone here, Wesley," she finally said topside. "That's not to boo-hoo about my situation or anything. I was alone in Portland and before that, in Reno. Angel's lucky. He's got support -- not just Cordy for a Messenger, but both of you guys, even if neither one of you can't help with his Warrior chores."

"I had no idea..." Wesley faltered, frowning at Gale. "I had just, naturally, assumed..."

She stepped from under his arm. "That everyone's deal is as good as Angel's?"

"No." His sigh rose above the soft creaks of his straightening spine as his arms crossed his chest. "That you were still in Reno. I suppose the miracle of E-mail is that one can relocate anywhere in the world without having to fret over forwarding addresses. And, not just that. I should have personally kept in touch with you instead of relying on Angel or Cordelia."

Mirroring Wesley's stance, Gale shrugged. "It's cool, Wesley." She shrugged again, focusing beyond him. "You have your priorities and I need to learn mine. I knew I had to do this on my own, I just didn't know how 'on my own' I was really going to be."

Sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Wesley treasured Gale's vivid appeal. The light through the stained-glass window behind his shoulder kaleidoscopically illuminated her somberness. Beads of perspiration jeweled her complexion; she glistened like amber, rubies, and sapphires. Her pleasant must hovered between them, almost visibly threading her sweat-stained workout gear to his rumpled shirt where her clinch had provided support.

Wesley swallowed. He blinked. He smiled encouragement. "You've got resources, Gale. Maybe you just haven't learned to put them to use, yet."

She rubbed the tip of her nose with her knuckles and bitterly replied, "I've got the *best* resources at my disposal, Wesley."

"The *best*," echoed up the stairs.   
  


Wesley stood in the foyer and considered his options. The truth was, he really could have used Gale's help to his room. Not only did his lower back ache, but every muscle below his waist was throbbing. When ten counted steps turned out to be nine too many, he directed himself towards the kitchen.

Even before 7AM, the household was active. The children shuffling past were unconcerned with Wesley except when he presented an obstruction. Two boys tore past him, their flat-footed charge unmuffled by throw rugs lining the hardwood hallway. The remembrance of once being so young and so energetic -- and of a certain towheaded co-terror named Ozzie Shaw -- made Wesley chuckle.

"OUT!" Trixie called over her shoulder at Wesley's shove through the swinging kitchen door. "Oh, it's you," she smiled, waving him in.

As Wesley walked past the house matron standing at the stove and stirring the largest kettle of oatmeal he'd seen since leaving the Academy, he peered over her shoulder. "I'm sorry to intrude," he said, confirming the hot cereal's texture.

"No problem," Trixie replied, patting his bicep. She replaced the lid on the pot and lowered the heat under the double-boiler. "Coffee?"

"Haven't been to sleep yet," he asided.

Lured towards the wall of windows lining one side of the kitchen, Wesley was mesmerized by the abundant brilliance of the 'English Light'. He missed being North during the summer; missed the longer days and the barely-dark nights; missed the mornings that bloomed with full sun.

He squinted into the spacious back yard. There, the tree-boundaried area was alive. Birds and winged insects flitted from tree to foliage. Yet, oblivious to the commotion, sat the motionless Tibo with his arms and legs pretzeled and his eyes tightly shuttered.

"YEAH! BOY, DID I! COOL! OW, STOP HITTING ME! DON'T, IT'S MINE!" was a boisterous chorus, disturbing Wesley's reverie. He bustled out of the way of several children clamoring to get outside.

The door slammed shut behind the children. Its café curtain wafted into place, fanning the quiet.

"He's meditating," Trixie said, motioning outside with the top of her head. "Communing with the Powers That Be. That's what he does every morning, rain or shine."

"He communicates with them, then?" Wesley's sleepy eyes opened wide. "He knows who they are?"

With her nose wrinkling playfully and the apples of her high cheeks budding with amusement, Trixie wrapped her arm through Wesley's and guided him to a bench at the farmhouse-style table. "He's *meditating*," she specified, "which looks like something you should probably go do after you have some juice."

Wesley took the offered glass and toasted his gratitude. "Excuse me for prying, if that's what I'm about to do. But, I --" Wesley stalled with a dainty sip, " -- find this entire situation rather strange. These *are* human children, are they not?"

Trixie patted his hand. "They are, indeed. *I'm* not." Wesley's questioning look prompted her to add, "my late husband was human."

"Please accept my condolences for your loss."

A forelock of Trixie's long graying hair was casually looped behind her ear. "Thank you, dear, but Roland's been gone for over a decade."

She joined Wesley for a sip of her own beverage -- a cup of coffee that was more creamer than caffeine. "You're probably wondering: The Powers That Be, a Warrior and a Messenger sharing a home with human children. Since you look like a confused young man who might enjoy listening to a story, it just so happens that I feel like an old woman who's willing to tell you one. I'll make it brief?"

Anticipation snipped Wesley's yawn in half. "By all means! And I didn't realize I was so transparent."

She chortled and toyed with the fingers of Wesley's free hand, fascinated. "My husband had hands like yours -- long fingers, beautiful nails. Roland played the piano and I used to listen to him tickle the ivories for hours. Ragtime. He loved anything with a bounce to it. It was great for the kids."

"Then your husband helped you with the children," Wesley asked, skimming the flotsam of pulp off the top of his orange juice with his lip.

"Well, we couldn't have any of our own, so this was the perfect arrangement. Some of these kids are so broken when they show up at the door -- "

She rose to tend to her pot, stirring it vigorously before turning the flame off beneath it. "But that's not the story I'm telling you."

"For me, it was love at first Sight," she continued after retaking her seat. Her full smile displayed a set of dull-white teeth, doll-like in size and shape. Flickered with sunlight, Trixie's cinnamon-brown eyes sparkled rosy with remembrance. "I met him in my Vision."

Intrigued, Wesley leaned onto his forearms. "You're a Messenger, then, too? Gale has *two* Messengers?"

"I *was* a Messenger, but when I fell in love with Roland, my Gift was removed."

"The transference. Yes, of course. Like how Cordelia got her Gift!"

"Probably nothing like how your lovely Cordelia received her Gift, young man. Navute were Messenger from the beginning. Not every Navute will become one; it's a privilege to be embraced and an honor for a family to have at least one Gift-bearing ancestor. My family -- to still retain the Gift after my disgrace is a rarity."

Wesley mulled over her comment. "So your inference is that you are *directly* Tibo's aunt, then. The same type of demon." Searching her face, he finally matched Trixie's facial structure to her nephew's -- the female's version definitely more plesantly evolved.

"Demon? Hmmmmm." Trixie stuffed a fist beneath her tapered chin. "With our human-appearances, we don't consider ourselves demonic. Yet, we know we're not human. We merely consider ourselves Native Americans even though our culture has existed longer than the Americas or its first human inhabitants."

"Remarkable. And to give all of that up for true love..." Lowering his eyes to the glass confined between his clasped palms, Wesley prompted, "and after your husband died..."

Trixie sighed heavily.

"After Roland's funeral," her fingers took a stroll with the memory, "I sat alone at this table and thought back over my life to that point. I had hardly been more than a child when I made a life-altering decision, but I had over fifty wonderful years with my husband. No grief, no anxiety. Perhaps if I'd been accustomed to the complexities of *real* life, the transition would have been easier."

"I can sympathize," Wesley said softly. "I was released from The Council of Watchers and I had no direction, no resources. After having been so sheltered, it was a devastating position to be in. To be without my past and, especially, to be without a future."

"Council?" Trixie concentrated on replacing her cup into its saucer's groove. "Cordelia's involvement with The Warrior Angel is legendary, but yours... Of Council and assisting a vampire? I'll concede that my life's tale is quite insignificant compared to yours."

Wesley's empty glass whacked the table. "Was. I *was* of Council. As I said, I was let go -- "

Trixie shook her head. She grasped Wesley's hand again. "I *was* a Messenger, but I will be *Navute* until the day I die. We will always be what we were, Wesley, no matter that we're elsewhere. The elsewhere doesn't change us, it just gives us someplace 'to be'."

"Being disowned -- No..." Slipping out of her grip, Wesley stowed his hand and his temper from view. "Your people even took your Gift away."

The door crashed against its stopper. "I *TOLD* YOU! NUH-UH!" The curtain flailed helplessly and was trapped against the jam after the door banged shut. "HE DID, TOO! NO YOU DIDN'T! STOP IT!"

Counting the children shuffling back into the kitchen, Trixie paid extra attention to their grimy footsteps. "Alone at this table, Wesley, I realized that my people took *a* gift from me, not *the* gift. My place is here with the children that I raise, just as it was always meant to be. On the day you find your elsewhere, you'll know it, too."

Wesley rose to follow the last child that trudged in from outside. "And Gale -- Has this become her elsewhere?" he asked, puzzled by the pensiveness that seemed to doubly age the woman's mature features.

"It's obvious that Gale likes you very much, Wesley." Trixie's voice was hoarse, as if she was dragging out words reluctant to leave their hiding place. "I don't care why that is because it's not my place to interfere with such matters; but, if the feelings are reciprocal, be cautious with your affections. Tibo may live among human-kind, but he does not necessarily accept their ways."

Lifting her eyes, she spoke to Wesley's disquiet. "We, Navute, are a prideful lot and a Navute Messenger is considered holy -- directly touched by The Powers That Be. Tibo believes in the old customs, that possession of the Gift is just as important as its use and that Warriors, by nature of their duties, are unclean. He doesn't respect Gale. As a result, she can't do her job. Perhaps with you, Angel and Cordelia here now, this will be resolved."

"We'll try our best, of course," Wesley promised. "It's difficult, at best, to work with any type of fanatic but your insight on the situation should help us tremendously."

At Trixie's silence, Wesley turned. "My nephew, for all his self-importance, fails to recognize the irony that the pain each Messenger receives comes directly from The Powers That Be," spoken at his back, chilled his retreating spine.

He climbed the ten stairs without thinking, each of his thoughts possessed by his own situation. Enthusiastic about inclusion in Angel's travel plans, Wesley had blissfully ignored the much larger picture: that his connection to The Powers That Be came only as a concession of Angel's employ, no matter how often it felt otherwise.

-0-

The backflip concluded with a backflop.

Tibo stepped over Gale, trailing one foot across her stomach. "I thought Wesley was helping you train."

Ignoring the snide remark, Gale rolled over and, straightening her arms, assumed the push-up position. Her inner coach tried several times but failed to convince her body that the distance back up would be no greater than the distance down to the floor.

The sound of spewing water broke her concentration and was as good an excuse as any to stop exercising. She sat back on her heels and watched the steaming faucet pour over Tibo's hand into the washing machine's tub. "You'd think with all the communing you do, the Powers That Be would have you relay a message or two to me," she badgered.

Gale hopped to her feet. Tibo turned around just as she misstepped for balance.

Sprinkling water at her with his reddened fingers, he jested, "perhaps They want you to be less clumsy or something before sending you on an assignment."

"I can still fight," she challenged, baring her bottom teeth.

"Barely," taunted her eye-to-eye combatant.

One beat. No breath. Gale zipped across the room with her arms in the lead. Clutching Tibo by the front of his weathered chambray shirt, she chucked him up and over. He'd been flattened several seconds before flakes of stucco snowed down from the ceiling.

"How's *that* for barely?" Gale sneered.

An impudent grin perverted Tibo's features. "Not so great. Perhaps, you need some rest." With brute eagerness, his two strong hands seized Gale's shoulders and changed their positions on the floor. Reining her neckline, he derided her cruelly, "and I've got three more R's for you, Gale. Re-energize. Regroup. Retrain."

"TIBO!" Trixie snapped from the base of the stairs.

Tibo lowered a head heavy with contempt. He jerked Gale to her feet and yanked her forward, seething against her ear, "Da'ur Etrix won't always be around to protect you."

Gale shoved with all her might, but only succeeded in moving herself. "Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"

With a quick bob of his head in reply to his aunt's reprimanding glare, Tibo carried the laundry basket away from her arms. He sauntered to the washer without recognizing Gale's confrontational attitude. "I'm just giving you a Message," he tossed over his shoulder, loud enough for his Warrior to hear above the agitation.

-0-

Wesley bumped against the footboard of Cordelia's bed. Again.

"Sorry," he grumbled under his breath.

On a normal day, Cordelia would have already been up. She would have also had a full night's rest instead of a few measly hours of post-dawn's. Cocooning herself, she nestled deeper under the covers. "I was already awake," she fibbed. Her drowsy smile beamed from out of the shadows.

Wesley heaved his duffle onto his mattress. Tugging too hard, the zipper's slider ran off of one track. Aggravated, he threw his toiletry bag inside.

His jaw shifted askew.

"You know, Wesley, this trip was a suck idea. I think that Angel... He's really wigging."

With his sight set on one of the many macaroni craftworks adorning the room's walls, Wesley fixated on massaging his thigh. "That's what Angel does, Cordelia. He wigs. He'll be fine."

Unconvinced by his clipped explanation, Cordy sat up, propping back against the headboard. "So then, that's Gale," she said, taking care to sound extra causal.

"That's Gale," Wesley responded perfunctorily. Rummaging in the bag, he extracted something plaid. Upon further excavation, he retrieved something mini-checked. Both somethings turned out to be pyjama bottoms. Annoyed with the prospect of going topless, he huffed and reached in for thirds, coming up paisley.

Bottoming out. Again.

Palming the stubble on his cheeks, Wesley gave up and slung the plaid legs over his polo-shirted shoulder. He stuffed the other pants away and pushed the duffle onto the floor.

Cordelia shimmied under her covers. "So... Once you decide to stop going bump in the morning, you aren't gonna snore are you, Wesley?" she joked, instantly flinching at Wesley's obvious irritation.

"As often as I've bunked at your apartment since Angel lost his, you don't know if I snore yet?" was his withering retort.

"As if I listen to you." Cordy flopped over, muttering, "and, in case you haven't noticed since you've been doing the bunking thing, Dennis isn't a snitch."

Secure that Cordelia had turned away for good, Wesley changed his pants. Flinging back the bedspread untucked all the linens from under the foot of the mattress. He climbed in, anyway. "If you're so concerned, Cordelia, you might want to consult Angel about whether I snore. After all, he's the sleep-gawker of our ménage, is he not?"

-0-

[evancomo@netscape.net][1]

   [1]: mailto: evancomo@netscape.net



	5. 

  
Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's. 

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A." 

  
  
  
  


**ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION**   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  


Chapter Four 

  
  
  
  


Seated in front of the computer's monitor, Cordelia repeated her balletic arm movements while the program continued loading. Leaning into third position made surveillance of Wesley easier; lifting out of it made her wonder how he had more energy despite getting less sleep. 

At least he didn't snore. At least, not that she had heard, anyway. 

Animated hand gestures corresponded with the fight Wesley was relating. Gale's eyes were widely attentive. As Cordelia listened, she realized now much more interesting Wesley' story was in its newer, exaggerated version. 

Upon their arrival, Gale had exclaimed "I-can't-believe-it's-*you*-guys-they-sent!" in almost one syllable. "Oh my God! Oh, God! O, God! Wesley! Ohmigod, Angel! Oh wow. Cordelia? Hi! Oh, man! Wesley, you look amazing!" Cordelia had wanted to slap Gale to make her stop bouncing. Swiveling at the waist, Cordy used her fifth position stretch to size up the calmer version of the female she'd met six hours earlier. 

Until a pair of rambunctious eight year-olds blocked her view. "Mister! Mister!" The taller boy offered a crumpled sheet of paper to Wesley. 

"Make us another!" his companion demanded. 

Gale, laughing, shoved off the wall she'd been leaning against and strolled across the library's hardwood floor, slipping a sheet of paper out of the printer bin. "You'll have to be more careful, you two. Wesley is here to help me, not to make paper airplanes," she chided, handing the loose leaf to Wesley. 

With uneaqualed dexterity, Wesley folded and crimped another prototype of paper aerodynamics. Smiling broadly, he lifted the dart and effortlessly flicked his wrist, sending the airplane sailing into the next room with the two boys drafting its wake. 

"Well, I think we may have another two minutes of peace before they destroy *that* one," he proclaimed. 

Gale tousled Wesley's hair. Wesley blushed. 

Tibo appeared and pushed a glass of Kool-Aid at Cordelia's nose. "Her behavior is obscene," he commented under his breath before claiming the seat next to the bureau. 

During a sip, Cordelia regarded her fellow Messenger. He was kind of a strange-looking guy, but she'd seen uglier. At least he didn't slobber or smell raunchy. Refreshed, she had nearly set the last third of the beverage down before Tibo whisked it from her hand and hurried back to where he'd come from -- probably to make a refill. 

She smiled to herself. "My first fan," escaped Cordy's lips before she realized that Tibo's enthusiastic attentions were borderline fan*atic*. 

"Excellent idea to bring along your Demon data base, Cordelia," Wesley commented over her shoulder while checking the installation's progress. 

"I'm not sure there's enough memory on this system to hold it, though," she replied to no one in particular. 

Wesley had moved in front of the built-in bookcase, its polished mahogany shelves stacked with row-upon-row of every subject suitable for children. He stroked a couple bindings as he read aloud the titles he recognized from his own childhood, greatly impressed with their preservation. 

"You should read to the kids tonight," Gale said. "They'd get a kick out of hearing your voice." 

"Really?" He turned and rested back. His arms, spread wide, gripped a shelf at hip-level. "I'm sure if you wanted to, you could find your own voice." 

Cordelia didn't need a premonition to decide that whatever was happening around her was too weird to be good. INSTALLATION COMPLETE blipped across the monitor and she rebooted the system just as Trixie hurried the two boys through the room. She couldn't help but frown in kind when they held up yet another flight disaster. 

"I'll get these two in the vanpool and then the house is all yours." 

"Have you seen Angel?" Cordelia asked. Trixie pointed back to the room she'd come from before scuttling away. 

A shriek from behind the draperies called attention to the room's huge front window. There, Gale was mummified in heavy floor-to-ceiling floral-printed damask while Wesley prodded her with two fingers. They giggled in unison, their voices nearly matched. 

"Puh-leeze." Cordelia rolled her eyes away from the silliness before being bombarded with another beverage. 

Tibo said nothing his face didn't already express. 

"I think we're ready." Cordy subtly placed the glass to the side in an effort not to offend. "Lemme go get Angel." 

"The Warrior communes," Tibo explained with one telling finger on top of Cordy's wrist. 

Cordelia slipped away from Tibo's suggestion. Under the arch dividing the library from the living area, she located Angel curled atop a loveseat in the darkest corner. Deciding that 'commune' was as good a description as any for Angel's scribbling ferocity, she returned to her chair. 

It was difficult to believe that it had been two months since Angel had lost his place and nearly lost both she and Wesley. Cordy had looked forward to Angel's company. She had offered the accommodations as a small way to repay Angel for everything he'd been doing for her since the almost-year they'd been in Los Angeles together. Hers was as good a place to hang as any while the vampire readjusted to Post-Scroll unlife and searched for a new home. And, for the first week, it had been fun. 

Well, fun in an Angel kinda way, fun. 

She knew how hard Angel worked at remaining in good spirits for her sake. Cheer, never his forté, became increasingly difficult as the relocation process moved into futility territory. She didn't doubt that not wanting to leave her unprotected played some part in his being unable to find a suitable apartment. That if Angel wasn't physically there, some great harm may befall her again. 

Each Vision she received pained the Warrior, as well. Circumstances had gotten to the place where Wesley was nearly confined to her couch since Angel couldn't bear not knowing where either of them were at all times. By week six, the over-concern had become Angelically-obsessive and suffocating. Her efforts to become a more empathetic person had been teaching her to keep certain feelings to herself and she accepted that his mood swings were just additional pieces of the living-with-Angel puzzle. After all, Angel wouldn't be living with her forever. Which, as soon as it came to mind, didn't make much sense considering that Angel's forever would always be a heckuva lot longer than hers. 

Cordelia sighed, impatient. The computer even had its version of forever. 

Gale snickered against Wesley's arm. He tittered into her hair. She swatted him playfully and he elbowed her ribs. 

If only Wesley got along as well with Phantom Dennis. Although, maybe with the help of a few paper airplanes, he and the ghost could bond. Or, she could install one of those behind-the-door basketball nets and they could Nerf their way to nivana. Cordelia smiled, then remembered that there was barely enough moving around space for two people to pass by one other. And, with Angel occupying the only bedroom during the day... 

Man, she missed privacy. 

When Whistler had shown up with the airline tickets and their new assignment, Cordy had decided to treat the excursion as a vacation. They'd all still be together but it would be a different type of togetherness. The whole idea of being someplace other than her apartment had been so thrill-worthy that she hadn't argued when Angel refused to let her call their wealthy acquaintance, David Nabbitt, to get their seats upgraded from coach. 

And, Wesley had been "giddy" -- his exact word -- to be included. He'd verified three times and once again that it wasn't a fluke and he, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, was not only an integral member of the Angel Investigations Team, his attendance had been directly requested by The Powers That Be. Wesley's grand whoopee had whee'd Angel for, like, all of a half-hour until reality hit: that not only Cordelia, with mind-numbing Visions, was tied to the demonic underworld, the ex-Watcher had been lassoed, too. With Angel pacing furiously, Cordelia's book-stacked and over-filled apartment / way-longer-than-originally-planned office became even more claustrophobic. 

In front of a colorful star-pocked accomplishment chart, Wesley performed a sleight-of-hand with silk irises. After whipping the bouquet across Wesley's hip, Gale took them to heart. 

It was during Cordelia's six-week auto show hostessing tour Gale had become her temporary replacement. Wesley had been tight-lipped about Gale's substitute Messengering, but something had visibly changed him. At the airport to pick Cordy up, the lanky man had been less awkward and an ultra-serioso maturity gloomied his eyes. Months after Angel's 100% recovery from necromongracy, Wesley still wore the look of the terminally angsty -- a look not unlike the one that Angel used to wear before taking a Spring turnaround trip to Sunnydale. 

A look that fled Wesley's features faster than Gale had flown downstairs. 

First Gale, then the apartment explosion cemented Wesley's and Angel's friendship. In the past, it had always been Wesley who felt excluded from Angel's and Cordelia's relationship. No one ever bothered examining how excluded she sometimes felt from theirs. 

One more thing she'd learned to keep to herself. 

"You slept with her, didn't you?" Cordelia probed often. But Wesley never confessed and Angel pretended as if Gale had been nothing more than a blip in their lives. 

The DemonicChick of Discord wore her 475'ish immortal years well, as well as Angel wore his 245. Or 250. Or maybe he was older. Or younger. Cordy could never get a straight answer from Angel if his immortal age included alive time or not. And, then there was that whole extra century that got tacked on (and that he never included) by living in hell, courtesy of Buffy. Actually, including the Buffy hell-years... 

Even without the math, it would take every ounce of Cordelia's ThoughtfulGirl effort to avoid pointing out how similar Angel and Gale were -- right down to their Pop-n-Fresh tummies. 

"She will meet judgment." 

Tibo's rasp sifted into Cordelia's subconscious and scraped along her nerves as the other Messenger leered at his Warrior.   
  


One hour later the quartet had yet to make any logistical progress, a severe lack of information providing the explanation. "And the Hurricane Ridge location when you got there?" Wesley asked. His pencil's eraser tapped another location on the map draped across his lap. 

Gale, seated straight-legged on the floor, leaned back onto her palms. "Like all the others -- empty. In fact, if it wasn't for the local Rangers, Wesley, I wouldn't have been able to confirm that there'd been any campers at all." 

Wesley flipped the giant map of the Olympic National Park over to study its Pacific Ocean side, verifying three additional circled campsites before folding it back to the eastern section. One of the items on his sightseeing list was a visit to the forest -- for recreation, however, not over mysterious disappearances. 

Cordelia scrawled onto her pad, "two adults and two teenagers. And you're not seeing any of this in your Visions, Tibo?" she asked, twisting her chair in his direction. Even though he diverted his eyes, Cordy knew what he'd been staring at -- Gale's foot knocking Wesley's. 

"My Visions are incomplete," Tibo stated coarsely. Gale huffed at a light fixture. 

Cordelia turned her back on Tibo. "You know, Wesley, it doesn't make any sense. How come I get Vision-rama in glorious sensory perception and Tibo only gets little bitty flashes? I bet they don't even hurt! It's not fair. Do you think we can trade Gifts?" 

"*You* can see with all your senses," Gale remarked, dispatching a scowl past Cordelia's arm. 

"Shhhhah-yeah!" 

"Smell?" Tibo asked, awed. 

"Smell is no prob. Smell, I can deal with. It's the tasting part that gets me." Cordy gagged for emphasis, as if coughing a fur-ball. 

Tibo bowed his head. "Perhaps I do not yet have the experience to integrate these other perceptions." 

Cordelia extended her arms above her head and rose into them. "Maybe. How long have you had your gift?" 

"Only six." 

"See? There ya go!" she said with a snap, commiserating, "that's about how long I've been getting 'em and I'm still learning lots." 

"And six months is a relatively short span of time," Wesley absently commented. While sharing his cartography with Gale, his dulled pencil poked right through the plasticized paper when Tibo clarified the time frame as 'years'. 

Wesley visually followed the two Messengers exiting the room -- with Tibo as Cordelia's unshakable shadow. "I don't claim to know everything about the Gift, Gale, but just my short exposure to it through Cordelia and then, you... Trixie had hinted that Tibo is inadequate, but surely you've tried to help him?" 

Rage shrouded Gale's oval face; her eyes clouded with contempt. "Sorry, Wes, but I'm no help at all to Tibo," she spat. "You know, with me just being a low-life Warrior and all." 

Before Wesley could respond, Gale ill-spirited from the room. 

-0- 

The two-story dwelling was filled with an eclectic mix of traditional furnishings and appointments from the world 'round. Atop the maternal sideboard sat a genuine Grecian Urn; between the paternal armchairs stood a maple table from The New World; and spread over the floors lay every size and shape of rug, from the simplest native sheepskin to intricate, loomed designs from the most exotic place of all -- The Orient. 

Liam always found the rugs fascinating. Whenever a new one was delivered to the house it spent the first two weeks hanging in the stable to rid it of any strange odors -- like being at sea too long or, the natural scent of a country of origin, countries where the sun always shone. 

The carpets were so bright, Liam reasoned that the sheep in foreign countries must come in different colors. He imagined ewes fattened on the Irish rainbows his father gathered and exported. 

The rugs, after doing penance, would be allowed inside to decorate the hardwood floors for a while until they were eventually banished and replaced by others. It was a curious cycle that Liam enjoyed since it meant, every few months, he and his brother could sit by the hearth and be entertained by the yarns their father spun about each new acquisition -- tales of smuggling from funny-sounding foreign lands. 

And the mighty Atlantic was the access to it all, whether by voyage or tale. 

As a prominent port town, Galway, Ireland, by 1732 had become a burgeoning center of commerce and Liam's father, an astute businessman who spent long days toiling at his fledgling business, took part in the activity. No matter how hard he worked, the devout Roman Catholic reserved Sundays for his family, with his two boys always the center of his attention. 

(Unbeknownst to his children, their father had applied considerable talent to protecting his family from the country's prevailing hostilities -- the result of English domination. That they lived in county Connacht, where most of the Roman Catholic population had been herded to, no doubt abetted his success. The edicts prevailing over the rest of the country were in effect there, too, but to a lesser degree, making life less harsh for a determined young householder.) 

His children were given everything their father was physically capable of providing. Dressed in the finest clothing within their means, Liam rarely found himself wearing carefully mended hand-me-downs. He and his brother were never obliged to share. 

Unless by their choosing. 

With a barefaced smile and without reservation, their father accepted his associate's joking accusations of pride. He enjoyed showing off his sons on the rare excursions to the wharf where, piloted by harbor pelicans, boats sailed in and out of Galway Bay. Entertaining the boys were tall-masted ships dropping sails and easing into port or pitching schooners with fully-dressed riggings bulging with wind, departing for the vast open sea. 

The gentle ocean lapped against vessels moored to the jetties. There was a sea of activity as fishermen straightened and repaired their nets, as cargo and livestock were landed or transferred. Bright canvas flags gaily flapped high above the heads of every size and nationality of men while Manannan Mac Lir ruled from the realm of his watery throne and his beautiful wife Bheara danced as the sunlit ripples of his crown. Anchored between his father and brother, Liam kicked up his heels and sailed over the landing. He helped with the sea god's watch by taking in every sight on shore, especially keeping an eye out for violet lambs. 

It had been Liam's earliest memory to sail beyond the farthest known destination one day. He'd be a strong Captain, and brave. He'd defend his father's goods against all looters and, after each mighty conquest, would assume their plundered bounty. He'd always return bearing gifts for everyone -- new fixtures for the castle he would build with his brother, books for his father, a Sultan's hair for his pretend-Uncle Shay, beautiful hats for Shay's wife and dolls for their daughters. 

And, after each exciting adventure, he'd put quill to parchment. 

"Liam." 

Liam blinked at his brother before realizing the address had been too deep. He turned to the man. 

"I'm going through considerable expense and evasion of law to have your brother schooled with the Friars. Now, if I'm to review his studies, he'll be needing to concentrate. Which..." a generous smile almost made his father's lips disappear, "...I cannot do with you bound 'round his arm." 

"I'll take him." Liam narrowly avoided the grabbing hands, but not the wrathful tone of "I declare that boy nurses his brother more than he ever did me!" 

"Ma! Your words!" Their father admonished his wife, raising his voice and a wagging finger. Dropping his chin, he regarded the tot. "Liam can remain, Ma," said he, reaching forward and effortlessly lifting Liam off his slippered feet. "But..." 

Liam winced and opened one eye warily. 

He adjusted the little one on his lap. "...he'll be needing to still..." His lips mussed the mop of brown hair he spoke into. 

Several minutes later and nearly asleep, Liam suddenly perked up and leaned forward. He waved his brother close to whisper in his ear. 

"_Dulcisono_?" The older boy considered the word for a moment then shook his head, still unconvinced. "You're sure?" 

Liam nodded affirmatively. 

"_Veritas_," their father confirmed. He considered both children, finally turning to Liam's brother for an explanation. "Now, what have we here?" 

A shrug came as the reply. 

"Liam gave you the answer?" His father's head lowered to cast curiosity into his younger son's face. "Liam?" 

Liam hid his face in his hands. Between the gaps in his fingers he saw his father still waiting for an answer. His shrug was an exact replica of his brother's. 

"You're embarrassing Liam, _Athair_. Don't stare at him so." 

Giggling, Liam squirmed while his brother pinched for his toes until their father reached forward and held his older son's hands at bay. "If you get him excited, I'll put him to bed," was a light-hearted threat punctuated with a weighty brow. 

Hugging Liam's feet to his chest, his brother leaned forward and rested a forearm across Liam's knees. "Don't you ever just think, Da, 'how did we get so lucky to have him?'" he marveled. 

The boys traded adulation. 

"Not lucky, Son. Liam is a gift from God," came the correction as two firm lips settled above the littlest boy's hairline. After being quieted against his father's chest, at some point in time amidst poor conjugations and mispronunciations, Liam settled to sleep... 

... 

"Draw *me*!" 

Angel gasped, but the two big brown eyes didn't disappear. He clasped his journal to his chest and shied away from the little brown girl. 

"Go away," he said. 

"I'm not allowed." As she shook her head, a multitude of dark braids clipped with colorful plastic bows whipped back and forth. She thrust her fists into the front pockets of her overalls. "House rules. When you're sad, you can't be sad alone." 

She graced Angel with a snaggle-toothed grin and repeated her request. 

"Chandi!" Trixie hurried over and immediately placed her lips on the child's cheek. "You're supposed to be in bed with this fever!" 

A rosy bottom lip slid into a pout. "But I'm tired of being in bed," Chandi whined, stomping away. "I was just following rules!" she protested, marching upstairs. 

Trixie took a seat on the hassock in front of Angel's chair and smiled at him. 

"I'm not going to draw you either," Angel said gruffly. It became apparent to the vampire that everyone in the house probably didn't understand the two words 'go away' when Trixie adamantly remained where she was. "I just *really* need to be alone," he insisted. 

"House rules," Trixie replied. "If I break them for you, I'll have to break them for the kids and, well..." she folded her hands on top of one knee, "I just can't play favorites." 

"I don't want to talk. I just came here to do whatever it is I'm supposed to do." Angel closed his book and set it in his lap after straightening his legs. "You wouldn't happen to have any idea what that is so we can get out of here?" 

"Not a clue." Trixie doted on the embroidered hem of her housedress. "And neither will you as long as you're not participating." 

"That another house rule?" 

The slight jut of Trixie's jaw became more pronounced with her eyes strictly narrowed. "In this house, you don't have to say what's on your mind, Angel, but you're not allowed to dwell on it by yourself. There are too many lonely people in this world and I'm not going to let any of these children grow up ignoring that. Consideration is the key to this home. That, and the children are to remain unaware of what we all are." 

Angel stood in defiance. "So if I'm going to my room does that mean that you're coming to keep me company there, too?" 

Trixie got up, too, but stepped to the window instead. "Your room is your sanctuary, vampire," she contended while cracking the blinds, "but don't, for one second, ever forget where you're at." 

-0- 

[evancomo@netscape.net][1]

   [1]: mailto: evancomo@netscape.net



	6. Chapter Five: Growing Up and Away

On The Road Towards Reconciliation Chapter Five: Growing Away Pains   
Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's. 

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A." 

  


**ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION**   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  


Chapter Five 

  
  


Kathy shrieked past. A blur in her birthday party dress, she was the first to reach the courtyard's retaining wall. 

Of the three men watching, the shortest literally tugged the oldest into the conversation. "I was just telling your son that the phrase 'shipping manifest' is not as vile as he may conceive." 

Liam's chin prevented his head from hanging any lower. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his father's rigid annoyance -- jaw locked, teeth clenched, lips tightly pursed. 

"Kathleen!" their father scolded. His consternation dissolved into delight. As Kathy and the four other girls huddled for a chorus of laughter, the corners of his eyes crinkled with enchantment. No matter that humor gladdened his features, dismay chipped at the timbre of his voice while he addressed his best friend, "Yes, well... Liam seems to have other thoughts about his future, Shay, and I doubt we'll ever see him hunched over journals and documentation. For all the years we've traded in textiles, I've yet to determine the cloth he's been tailored from." 

Shay nodded thoughtfully. "Were the Missus and the Sister pleased with the treasure for little Kathleen?" he redirected, maintaining his good-natured disposition. 

A burly man, Séamus Brennan boasted a chest broader than his shoulders. His jowls and dimpled chin appeared swollen under his unwavering smile. The girth perched above legs too thin and feet too small was as proportionally odd for a man as it was for a shore bird. Despite the years of prosperity under that burgeoning waistline, Shay's wide hands still bore the calluses of labor -- he had never stopped toting bolts of fabric, whether two doors down or to the docks. 

Liam felt transparent as the two men chatted. Founded on a childhood friendship that was stronger than most blood relationships, Uncle Shay and Liam's father enjoyed much more than a business association. Theirs was an amiable partnership, with the majority of their success achieved through the integration of their personal and professional lives. Although they had come to share fewer common interests throughout the years, like the brotherly affection between them, their camaraderie had only increased. 

The contrasts between Séamus and his less garrulous, more elegant business partner were striking. A wigless, full head of strawberry-blond hair was constantly afrizz; eyes the blue of a sunny spring sky were ever alert for a moment of whimsy. Blessed with a temperament that neither collected nor parceled bad-will, only the elements and years had weathered his ruddy complexion. Of average height, he was dwarfed by his companion; but what Shay lacked in stature, he made up for with wit, never failing to hand out a clever line or well-chosen phrase at the most appropriate time. 

It was accepted -- and celebrated -- that Séamus Brennan never met a kind word he could keep to himself. 

Enraptured by Kathleen's frolicking, Liam's father's features were swathed with a remnant of former youth -- mirth tautened his hollow cheeks, smoothed the creases from his forehead. Sunlight prettily glinted the silver streaking his dull brown locks. "... rumors to lift those trade restrictions for years, Shay. I'll believe it when they're abolished, and not a day before." 

"With the Scots supplying what they can't, the English are still crowing that a glut of Irish fleece will depress the market's prices. And they'll keep blaming it on economics until they realize their quality will never be better than inferior. When you inspect the broadcloth that came down this morning on the cart from Ulster, you'll see. It may be _greige_, but even a blind man would be able to see how fine Eire weaves." 

Shay's national pride did nothing to soften his partner's ascetic countenance. "What you're telling me then, is that Spotbridge will be inspecting the next shipment out?" 

Shay curved an arm around his friend's waist and confided, "Time and again, we've manipulated the soddin' English and their rules with ingenuity and personality. Am I not right? You just keep crafting your artful transactions and I'll keep persuading Spotty with my 'warmest' handshake." 

Kathleen, prancing across the courtyard, swept her hand across the back of her father's frock coat in passing. His steely regard finally bowed under the additional pressure of Shay's comically puffed cheeks and hearty wink. He shook his head and chuckled, "You'd imagine one day the English would begin noticing how little wool there is on an island so stocked with sheep." 

"As long as we keep up with our excise taxes and duties, and keep procuring all those silks and jacquards from the Orient to keep their sow wives happy, the affluent bastards will never take heed!" 

Liam's bitter laughter eschewed their levity. "If I used such language on your sacred grounds, Father, you'd cuff me but good, wouldn't you?" 

"Liam," Shay cautioned from under his breath and a mostly-toothful smile. 

But the warning came too late; the damage had been done. Even his father's ears pulled back offensively. "You can't spare a hour for your sister -- " 

Liam charged the short distance. "And can you not spare an hour without spinning business?" he challenged. He pointed a silencing finger at Shay. "How is it that you never weave in a word about this one's mouth? How is it, Father, you embrace the Lord with one arm while the other is wrapped 'round a man who not only doesn't share your faith or morality, but has yet to decide if there's even a God to have them for!" 

Shay's face colored. "Liam," he growled. At his friend, he purred, "_Donn_... At least for your sister's sake, Liam, mind your tongue!" 

By crumpling the front of his frock, Liam's father fought a striking impulse. The corner of his mouth lifted derisively, though, as he glowered at his heir. "Take a look around the next time you venture outside these walls, Liam. This God damned Ascendancy has penalized the pride right out of the land. Your countrymen are destitute and illiterate; they've no politicians for fight for their rights; no land without a son to hold the title. *My* affluence, Liam, has clothed you, put food in that worthless belly of yours, and roofed your shiftless head. You dare mock me, boy? Then you do so at your own expense!" 

Uncharacteristically anxious, Shay divided the two men. "That scowl on your face would be less difficult to manage, young man, if you didn't know he was right," he asided, easing Liam out of his father's direct line of sight. He waited for the heated moment to cool, which it did in the instant Kathy twirled past. "This isn't the time for a sermon, _Donn_," he allayed. "Let Kathy have her special day. You and Liam can have at each other's throats during the rest of the year." 

One of his eyebrows arched, accompanied by a coddling, "Hmmmm?" 

Liam's father wriggled his slender fingers in and out of a fist and nodded acquiescence. "Insightful, as always, Shay." He paused for a mental accounting. "With the pearls, once the foal comes... And with the interest accumulating in her Rothschilde trust, Kathleen's dowry is becoming quite promising." 

Liam's hunched shoulders protested the sudden movement of his head jerking to attention. "Dowry?" he echoed. "She's only twelve and you're -- " 

His father's look was cutting of more than a comment. "This doesn't concern you, Liam. Carry on with your daydreams." But Liam, shadowing the retreating men, adamantly peeled back his father's shoulder. 

"LIAM!" 

Liam cowered back a step. "Da, she's *just* twelve. What you're suggesting -- " 

"-- doesn't concern a brother! I've got preparations to tend to if my daughter is to make a good marriage one day. Even better than the one you were to have," he added, pointedly. 

Shay landed a mitigating hand upon his best friend's shoulder and entreated, "Please! _Donn_, it's only been a few months since Corrine nearly lost her life. Praise your Christ that Liam was able to identify the bastard that got put to the gallows for such wickedness." 

Liam swallowed hard and unknotted his new shirt's restricting jabot. 

A few wisps of thinning hair escaped from their binding as Liam's father reared his head; bobbing erratically, they shivered his angry aura. "And what an error of convenience that Liam will *never* greet an altar, Shay. Still, I'll not let Kathleen suffer his liability and I'll not allow her to be fodder for barter." 

As Kathleen skipped past with the other girls, her father grasped one of her fluttering leader ties and gently reeled her back. With one strong arm scooped about her waist, he hoisted her into the air. 

"Da!" Kathy squealed. Delighted, her airborne feet danced from under her late-summer petticoats. Holding onto his neck with all of her might, she leaned towards his face and graced his cheek with a fervent kiss. And released him as dramatically. 

"Kathleen," he mock-scolded, captivated even though she'd untied his ponytail. With the tip of his nose, he poked at the ribbon she dangled between their two faces. 

Séamus smiled at the pair skipping away. "These four and two other daughters, but not a one of them has me knotted to her finger as Kathleen has your Da. I'd give up a measure of my success for a son, nonetheless," he sighed. Blithely, he looped a surrogate arm around Liam's shoulders and muttered against the young man's cheek, "You'll find someone again, Liam. And Kathy's not grown up and out of the house just yet; still we've got to start moving along what your father's God planned." 

But rubbing his chin in thought, Liam barely heard the consolation or Shay's supper invitation. The morning before, his sister had been eleven. After the set of one moon, Kathleen had taken the first step out of his life and he couldn't ignore the pang of jealousy tightening his chest while the young woman-in-disguise tidied their father's coif. 

-0- 

"OH!" Cordelia defensively clutched the towel to her chest even though she was the one fully clothed. 

Gale didn't react. Freshly showered, she continued drying between her toes. "I'm almost done if you want to brush your teeth or anything." 

"You're kind of..." 

"Oh. I'm sorry. I always forget to lock the door and... I guess nudity is a demon thing. We've got no modesty." 

Cordy couldn't argue with Gale's statement. She'd probably seen Angel in every pair of silk boxers he owned, making her wonder if her resident phantom, Dennis, had an ethereal wardrobe. It wasn't the first time she concluded that Dennis was a snappy -- albeit retroish -- dresser. 

"That's some, uh -- " Cordy lowered her eyes until Gale saronged a bath-sheet, " -- tattoo you've got there." 

Gale pinched up her terrycloth hem and glanced down at her left hip as if seeing the ornate design for the first time. "I've had it so long, I don't remember it most of the time. Like seeing it every day, but not seeing it. You know what I mean?" 

"Um. I would think you'd remember something like that." To reroute her discomfort, Cordelia stepped to the sink. Raising her hairbrush, she commenced her bedtime beauty ritual. "I've got one, too," Cordy said after a couple of strokes. 

She paused and, reaching behind with one hand, exposed the small of her back. "Nothing fancy like what you've got. But it hurt like hell to get!" 

Gale nodded her admiration. "Kewl. Celestial motifs are pretty common and they're good to get. Mine's way different, though. See?" A couple of steps brought her hip nearer for inspection. "I've got lightning." 

"YOUCH!" Cordelia shuddered, an empathic response. "That bad boy had to hurt like a mo fo!" 

"Yeah." Gale traced an incomplete capitol. "My sister -- you know I had a twin sister?" She paused, taken aback by Cordelia's negative head shake. "Anyway, we got them at the same time. She passed out, but I stayed kinda conscious. By the time they got to the second column, I was hallucinating, serious big time." 

Accepting the invitation, Cordy gingerly poked the tattoo. In addition to the two columns, and the bolt of lightning, there was a funky-looking heart spilling blood into a couple of pitcher-shaped cups. It was the strangest design that she'd ever seen, but there was also something very beautiful about it. Probably because of the baby-fine lines each segment had been drawn with. "So, all put together, what does it mean?" 

"That I'm pretty, smart, and fun to be around!" 

Cordelia returned to the sink, not sure what to make of the reply until Gale laughed. She smiled into the mirror. "Joking, huh?" 

"Yeah. Just kidding. The columns signify my twin and me -- hers were exactly the same. Right before she died, a demon I was fighting chinked one of my capitols. Leora was the Chosen One, you know? But I took her place. My Watcher always said her death was a coincidence, but..." She smudged a hunk of wet hair off her forehead with her wrist. 

Watching Gale lost to reflection, Cordelia felt a pang of sentiment. She quickly diverted her attention to her teeth and gums. "So does, like, Wesley know about it?" 

Snapped from her reverie, Gale began vigorously toweling the moisture from her head. She snorted in amusement. "That's how Wesley figured out who I really am! When he saw it and -- and -- " Her eyes popped wide open. "But, you know, not that he saw it other than in a purely *ordinary* way," she recanted, "nothing, you know, physical, or anything. I mean, he was kinda giving me a physical... 

"But we weren't playing doctor or anything like that. OK?" 

Gale turned several shades deeper than Wesley had ever blushed. Cordy tch'd, dismissing the obviously embarrassing subject. "You know, Gale. It's cool what ever *didn't* happen between you and Wesley." 

"Wesley never talked to you about us?" the nervous Warrior asked. 

After wrangling her long brunette mane into a ponytail on top of her head, Cordy closed her eyes and began applying cleanser to her face. "I'm not trying to get into your business, really. I just was asking about the tattoo. That's all. And if Wesley's OK with it, it's 'K. Angel fine with it, too?" 

Scrunching her face, Gale shook her head 'no'. "Angel's never seen my tattoo. Other than you and Wesley, no one outside of Council has ever seen it." 

Cordy splashed her face clean, lightly patted and turned. She specified, "your *tattoo*." Gale bashfully nodded 'yes'. 

"Oh, man..." Cordy whistled a breath. "It's just a Council thing, then," she commented to herself. As Gale timidly padded out of the bathroom, Cordy's thoughts honed in on Wesley. "Oh, man..." 

-0- 

"Angel!" Wesley barely managed to open the door to his and Cordelia's quarters before being confronted with Angel's obstructing bulk. "Are you alright?" 

Angel bullied Wesley back and locked the door. "You should be asleep. You haven't slept since before we left for the airport yesterday." 

"I-- I--" Wesley inhaled sharply. "I'm restless, Angel. My mind is racing a million kilometers a second and the back of my eyelids has become a virtual map of the Olympic Forest. If you'd like, since you're here, we might go over what little information Cordelia and I have gleaned from Gale and Tibo. If you could offer some insight --" 

"Go to bed," Angel commanded. 

Wesley rubbed his temples. "Angel," he snarled, losing leash of his temper, "I thought you'd given up whatever animosity you used to harbor for Gale." 

A sardonic smile consumed Angel's mouth. He halted mid-pace and laughed grimly. "That was before I thought we'd ever have to see her again." 

Wesley rushed the door... Too slowly. Angel, having sped from the other side of the room, blocked the doorknob. 

"If you'll speak with me about this assignment, I'll stay; otherwise, get out of my way." 

"I'm not going to let you do this," Angel menaced, squaring his shoulders. 

"How?" Wesley seethed, "By imprisoning me here, too? Surely you can't be that cruel since you're too antisocial to keep me entertained!" 

"I'm going to have Cordelia get us a flight out of here and --" 

"You'll do *no* such thing, Angel." Wesley leaned into the vampire and used his slight height advantage to peer down his nose. "For a month, now, I've conceded to your wishes but, please -- You've got to start giving this situation a rest. There won't be any evil demons crashing through the front door to get at Cordelia or me -- " 

He paused. At the insistence of a tap from the other side of the wall, Wesley lowered his voice, " -- no incendiary devices exploding. And, even if there were... I -- I can't keep living my life as if it's in constant danger." 

"It's not your *life* I'm worried about." 

There was concern pitted in Angel's dark eyes and a part of Wesley deeply appreciated the emotion. The other part of Wesley was damn exhausted with it, though. "We're here to do a job and we're not leaving until we've done it. Gale's not transitioning well, her Messenger is incompetent, and, there are several families missing. The Powers That Be sent us here to get to the bottom of this --" 

Angel prodded Wesley back. "*That's* not why we're here," he sniggered. He strode as far as the room allowed before coming back around. 

"Then why?" Wesley fleered. 

Angel's fingertips peppered his skull. "To fuck with our minds." 

After knuckling his glasses up his nose, Wesley dropped the fist to his mouth and slowly blew into its hollow -- in vain, anger had usurped his frustration. "It's not enough that your frenetic personality and your over-protectiveness have practically isolated Cordelia and myself from the rest of the world that you're a conspiracy theorist now, also?" 

Angel returned to the door and stopped. "This is what they do." 

"Puh-leeze, Angel!" Wesley shoved the vampiric barricade aside and unlatched the door. 

"Angel? Wesley?" 

"NOTHING, Cordelia," they quelled in unison before Wesley shot a caustic eye at Angel and curled through the doorway. 

Cordy noted Angel's body language -- kinda statuey except for the tense finger fidgeting. "Hey, Angel, you wanna watch TV or something? There's cable." 

Tenser fidgeting, with his focus landing just above the floor. Cordy's lips puckered up to a plan. "Videos? You can remind me how good music *used* to be," she sing-sang. 

Folding one leg onto the mattress, Cordy plopped down. She flicked through channels. "Mop-o-Matic! You think Dennis would like that? Although... I don't know, since he hated that twisty mop I got him. He's way too picky about his cleaning supplies for a ghost. *Only* buy name brands, and if it's something that hasn't been around since the beginning of time -- you know, like the 50's, then he doesn't wanna use the stuff. Sorry to say, Dennis, but Bon Ami wasn't meant to clean Teflon." 

She scooted back against the headboard, sweeping both feet to one side. Angel didn't take up her patted invitation for a seat. "You should have been at dinner, Angel. Wesley and Gale -- " Catching Angel's almost imperceptible flinch, Cordy adjusted her comments accordingly. "They're such goof-balls, you know? Trixie made spaghetti -- not nearly as good as yours, but she's only got kids to feed, so I guess it's cool, but -- " 

Taking a deep breath, she continued yammering, " -- Gale reaches into the pasta pot and picks up a strand and tinsels the back of Wesley's head with it. And then he reaches into the pot and does her." Keeping time with her chatter, Cordy channel surfed too rapidly to decipher what was on screen. "Back and forth this keeps going on and the kids are all *busting* up until one of 'em says, 'we're not going to eat off their heads are we?' 

"Well, Trixie turns around and glows hot pink! OK, sorry. But, you know if you're gonna try to pass off as human, probably *not* a good idea to go neon, but then she swats Gale across the arm and points a pretty mean index at Wesley. By now everyone's laughing and spaghetti is all over the floor and the kids are flinging it at one another and it's a big ole mess!" 

Petrified eyes peered from under beveled brows. "Wesley doesn't understand." 

Cordy clicked off the set and rose; a prudent approach gradually brought her to Angel's side. She slid her palm down one of his long unbuttoned sleeves. "Because he doesn't know," she explained softly, relieved as Angel's muscle slackened. 

Angel canted against the door, ran his finger over the poster of a singing quintet whose identity he couldn't discern from their interchangeable rivals no matter how many times Cordelia had explained the differences to him. "I can't fight what I can't see." 

Self-consciously dropping his head and speaking "And I'd take you guys back home, except I don't have one," above his silent heart caused Cordy's breath to catch. 

"You're never going to be able to fight in the first place if you keep hiding in your room," she soothed, taking his cheeks in her palms and tilting his head. 

But Angel shied away from the unspoken affection adorning her face, complementing her droll smile. "Why do you think we're here?" he asked. 

Cordy shrugged. "Force of Darkness?" she ventured brightly, hiking a brow. 

He considered her notion. "Guess I'll have to go find him, huh?" 

"And when you do?" Cordy began as she escorted Angel to a seat in front of the TV, "kick his ass *extra* hard for making us come all this way to get him!" 

-0- 

Wind-milling his arms reduced the tension in Wesley's shoulders. He had nearly forgotten what the term 'full range of motion' meant. His head toggled effortlessly and his chest expanded across lungs filled to capacity. Still, he looked forward to the day he'd once again be able to flex without listening to himself creak. 

Gale greeted his arrival at the kitchen table with a smile, extending a palm towards the opposite bench. "Look familiar?" She pointed at the chessboard. 

Wesley examined the child resting across Gale's lap before taking in the playing surface. He counted the pieces, considered their positions and beamed. "The last game we never finished playing! As I recall," he boasted, "I was win -- " 

Wesley's attempt to move his black rook ended prematurely when his hand collided with Gale's. 

"It was *my* turn," she proclaimed. 

Wesley rummaged his thoughts for a moment. "No. It was definitely mine." 

"He talks funny." The little girl sat up abruptly. 

Gale studied the sleepy face. "That's not a polite thing to say, Chandi." 

Chandi peered sheepishly at Wesley. "Sorry that you talk funny," she apologized. Slumping against Gale's side, she rubbed her sleepy eyes. 

Gale smiled pardon one second, rushed the board in the next. While fumbling her piece, Wesley reached forward and tackled her fingers. His chiding glance was met with his opponent's smug impenitence. 

"Diversionary tactics?" he asked, begrudgingly dropping the pawn into her waiting palm. 

Folding his forearms across the table edge, Wesley leaned forward and considered his options. "You know, Chandi, if you listen very closely to people, you will eventually notice that *everyone* speaks strangely," he said with an extra coating of British veneer. 

Chandi giggled. 

Having achieved the desired effect, Wesley lowered his gaze from above his lenses. As his head leveled, his bottom lip nudged its top mate into a boyish grin. "If you don't mind my asking, young lady, where are the other children?" 

Chandi rolled her eyes. "In bed," she replied unhappily, hopping off Gale's lap. 

While Chandi hugged Gale hugely and the two pecked cheeks, Wesley moved his knight. Smirking supremacy above his and Chandi's enthusiastic goodnight squeeze drew Gale's attention to the stratagem he'd applied. 

Chandi, oblivious, toddled off to bed. 

Staring dumbfounded and open-mouthed at the board, Gale slammed the tabletop with her hand. Immediately covering it with his own hand, Wesley confidently rested his cheek on top of his fisted other. "You can't possibly win," he razzed. 

"I'm going to figure this out if it takes all night," Gale threatened, plaiting their fingers. 

He reached across, tipped up her chin. Fully dimpled, he gloated, "remember you've only got five hours until sunrise."   
  


Less than an hour later, Gale resigned herself to her plight as she dismissed another round of options. She sighed. "You don't know how many times I've been tempted to call you, just to hear a friendly voice. Even if you do sound funny." 

Wesley palpated her wrist with his thumb. "It's difficult when you're trying to acquaint yourself with new responsibilities when you're not sure you know what you're doing, even when you're exactly suited for the position." 

"It's not that." She met his eyes briefly before shuttering hers. "You know how I used to go online with all my Messenger buddies? How we'd trash chat and -- I mean, I know I'm not a Messenger any more. And some of the guys wouldn't be able to talk to me even if I could locate them, but..." 

She scratched her forehead, dropped her hand, and gnawed on her fingernail. 

Wesley swept her hand aside and slipped the back of his fingers along her cheek. "But..." he prompted. Gale lowering her head to the table left him bewildered. 

"I feel like I'm stranded, Wesley. That it's not that the guys won't talk to me anymore. It's more like they're no longer there." 

Wesley moved to sit next to her. Straddling the bench, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and gathered her to his chest. "Surely, Tibo's not making the situation any better, but the Powers That Be obviously know what kind of trouble you're in and they've sent us to help, Gale. This will all get better. I *promise*." 

Rolling her head against his collarbone, Gale's sobbed, "But this is supremely bad, Wesley. All the promises and help in the universe can't help this situation." 

Wesley held the Warrior tighter. He stroked a tear from her cheek before settling his hand on her back. "There, there. This is only chess, Gale," he joked, his cheek stroking her slightly damp scalp. "All you had to do was ask and I would have gladly retracted my move." 

-0- 

The bedroom door flew open. Kathy darted in. A practiced click sealed Liam's room. With her eyes closed and her lips swagged with mischief, she listened to her party guests pitter-patter past. 

Her new silk dress fit her perfectly; the salmon-pink bodice smoothed to just above her hips, dipping to an elongated vee in the front. Two rows of ivory lawn and one row of crisp Irish lace ruffled from under elbow-length sleeves. A tidy bow embellished the corners of her split cuffs, with larger bows decorating her center front panel. A dressmaker had managed to conceal buttons beneath one of the galloons festooning her princess seams, making it appear as if Kathy had been permanently encased in the meandering floral. As she barely contained a fit of the giggles, the slight pannier styling of a matching full-length skirt wobbled above its farthingale. 

Liam couldn't resist sneaking up on her, but the floorboard creaked his next-to-last step, startling the girl. With one hand clamping her mouth and one arm lassoing her waist, he yanked her away from the threshold. 

And, as abruptly, let go. 

"LIAM!" she whisper-shouted, shoving him off his feet and onto his mattress. Instantly she clambered atop him. But he pushed her aside and sat up. 

Her cherubic smile fluttered away. Two deep lines notched the space between her serious brown eyes. "What's wrong?" she pouted. "Is it that I smell?" 

Amusing Liam with her antics, she took a whiff of the air in front of her and checked the crooks of her elbows. "Ma even let me wear some of her orange blossom water. Here!" And she thrust her wrist against her brother's nostrils. 

Liam playfully defended himself, easing her hands into her lap. "No, Kathy. You don't smell, girl," he assuaged. "It's just... You're... " 

His brows crossed and his nose wrinkled. Perspiration drizzled down his sides. "But -- You're wearing stays now?" 

Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she tumbled onto her back, swinging her legs swung back and forth as she tussled with her bodice. Kicked off at her heels, Kathy's dainty velvet slippers hung on by her toes. "I know! And I HATE them. But, Ma says I must!" Sadness pooled in her eyes. "I begged *so* hard, but Anna wouldn't loosen the lace." 

Liam's heart constricted. He regretted broaching the subject, for the more Kathy squirmed the more uncomfortable she became. A huge tear rolled from her cheek onto his coverlet. Miserable, she sniffled noisily. 

"Kathy, please!" he pleaded, capitulating. He couldn't bear seeing her suffer. Raising his fingers, he held them at wait. "Just stop your weeping." 

His smile was all the proof she needed that he'd submitted to her will and, in return, she showered him with gratitude. She nimbly unbuttoned her bodice and bounced upright, presenting her back. "Thank you! Thank you!" she extolled. 

With a hard tug, he unfurled the lacing's bow. Kathy's deepest breath of the day helped the ribbons reverse-slither through the eyelets. It wasn't much different than watching a hemp rope uncoil from around a mooring to unfetter a ship -- except Kathy's lash, from all the activity she'd engaged in since the morning, left her spine chafed and her pale flesh bruised and scored where the linen-bound whale boning had been riding her waist. 

Retracting his fingers, Liam scooted away before giving into the temptation. A tickle would only exacerbate the irritation. 

Comfortable, Kathy rebuttoned. "I hate it. HATE it! If Ma wants to wear one, fine! But I plan to help Da and Uncle Shay when I'm older. And I'm going to ride horses and wear breeches just like you!" 

Grinning, she blinked. 

He blinked and reached into his pocket. "I got you a present; maybe this will cheer you up?" Lifting her right hand, he slid an ornate silver ring onto her middle finger. "I know it's not as special -- or expensive -- as the necklace Da got for you --" 

But Kathy cut him off before he could finish apologizing. "_A stór!_ Liam! It's so pretty!" Ecstatic, she bounced up and down. "I've never seen anything like it! Where did it come from?" 

His cheeks were warmed by her elation. "Staggering through Claddagh yesterday. There's a silversmith there and... When I saw it I thought of you. And look. I got one, too," he said, displaying his hand. 

"We're twins!" she proclaimed, admiring her ring from every angle. She lurched at him. Knocking them both off balance, she clenched his ribs and ground her nose in his chest. "It'll be my favorite present always, Liam. Thank you!" 

He earnestly returned her embrace and kissed the top of her head. "The smithy told me that the hands mean 'kinship', the crown means 'loyalty', and the heart -- " 

"The heart means 'love', doesn't it?" She lifted her face and kissed his chin. "I knew it; and I know that I'll never take it off!" 

Liam primped the lace bow holding the curls at the top of her head. "And know I'll never stop loving you," he sighed. 

Distracted by the activity outside the door, Kathy bolted straight up. "Those dullard girls are spending the night!" she huffed 

Laughing, he helped her onto her feet, directing her at the door squeaking ajar. "Those dullard girls are your cousins," he reminded her. 

"Not our real cousins, though." 

"But close enough relations," an intruder responded from the open doorway. The siblings turned and regarded the stark figure filling the cavity. 

"Like you, Sister?" Liam snidely remarked as he stood. 

The humorless woman regarded her nephew while she collected her niece. "You've guests, Girl, you should be entertaining. Your brother will always be here." Although, not much taller, she overruled the caps of Kathy's shoulders and steered the child out the door. She tugged at the floppy lacing as Kathy bounded past. 

Before he could catch the words, Liam explained, "It was too tight. And it hurt." 

Sister -- that was all they'd ever dared called her, never Aunt Maeve. Their mother had never referred to her younger sister by any other name, either, perhaps also scared of the strong-willed diminutive female with loam-dark eyes. Faintly brown lashes and eyebrows with random colorless quills hinted at the scalp secreted beneath the tight white coif and flowing black veil. 

If the she was indeed married to Christ, Liam mused, He was the most benevolent of spouses. The Sister resided under their roof more often than her abbey's. 

"It's Kathleen's mother's decision on how best to manage the girl's toilette," she said. As she stepped into the room, the taffeta ribbons of her black, calf shoes scratched her alb, drawing attention to its fagotted hem. The fine linen fabric had been bleached to purity and beetled to so fine a sheen the Sister gleamed around the edges. A dainty Venise lace added geometric scalloping to the full sleeves billowing over her wizened hands. 

She absently fingered her lapis lazuli prayer beads. An intricately embroidered girdle cinching the tunic to her abdomen would have gone unnoticed, black upon black, had not the strand been looped from it. Other than the ornate gold and cobalt rosary, she never donned such an ostentatious -- and irregular -- variation of her vocation's habit outside the courtyard walls. 

"And who manages your toilette, Sister, that they seem to have forgotten your vow of poverty?" Liam retorted. 

The nun's cheeks flushed hot and she narrowed her eyes; one corner of her truculent mouth twitched. She wore disdain like she wore her fineries -- with arrogant remorselessness. Able to subjugate corruption with a withering glance, the Sister was condemnation incarnate. 

Ignoring Liam's provocation, she commenced a contemplative stroll from the room. Stepping into the hallway she stopped, turned her head, and regarded him from over her shoulder. "Never forget God is watching you, Nephew," she intoned, no more impassioned than if cosseting a child. 

-0-

[evancomo@netscape.net][1]   
[Angel's Journal][2]

   [1]: mailto: evancomo@netscape.net
   [2]: http://members.nbci.com/angeljournal/index.htm



	7. Chapter Six: A Touch Closer, A Touch Ap...

On The Road Towards Reconciliation Chapter Six: A Touch Closer, A Touch Apart   
Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's. 

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A." 

Author's note: Wiseblood, who's been stealthily co-reading, provided extra-tremendous help with this chapter. 

  


**ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION**   
by Evan Como   
  
  
  


Chapter Six 

  
  
  
  


Etrix March squinted through her kitchen window into the bright July morning and remembered. She remembered how, the instant she and Roland had first stepped into this room, they knew they'd found their home. It had been a typically unsunny Seattle winter day then, but the gloominess hadn't clouded over the possibilities they both felt in their hearts. They had held one another in front of the windowed wall, gleefully shivering as arctic air blustered in through the broken glass. 

She'd wept and he'd kissed her tears. They'd laughed themselves delirious. 

Trixie chuckled to herself. At the time, the Queen Anne-styled house had been in such derelict condition that she and Roland practically moved in for free. Her late husband had been good with his hands and even better at making friends. Although it had taken nearly a decade, with the aid of his fellow weekend handymen at the Postal Service, everything wrong eventually got righted. By June of 1962 their home had become a showpiece. 

A vast, empty showpiece. 

"I guess we really don't *need* a six-bedroom mansion just for the two of us," Trixie admitted aloud one afternoon to Roland while he picked apples in the backyard. 

Resting his arm in front of him, he lowered a branch just enough to peer over. 

Nature helped picture her recollection. Filtering through the leaves, September daylight intensified the blue of Roland's eyes and the straw blonde of his crew cut. It dappled his cheeks -- the color of the Spartans in her bushel -- and glimmered the shallow smile concealing the depths of his aplomb. 

"Then I guess we'll just have to start filling it, Trix," he replied. And, as collectedly as he'd accepted her otherworldliness, Roland began filling five of those bedrooms with children. Mining the Emerald City of its waifs, by one-at-a-time or by three-, Roland assembled their family. That the children were only under their temporary custody didn't matter; they extended their arms -- their hearts -- with boundless devotion. 

Anticipating a child returning to his or her natural caregiver didn't make the separation any less painful, however, no matter how often it occurred. Etrix still mourned a departure as deeply as she'd celebrated an arrival. "Gretchen will be just fine," Roland had murmured against her cheek, barely brave enough to avoid falling apart, too. 

"But it's like a little piece of me breaks off every time we lose one," she'd sobbed against the chest of his tear-soaked shirt. 

He'd clipped her nose with the crook of his little finger. "Imagine that, Trixie! No matter where you end up or how old you get, to be able to reach inside and find a morsel of someone's love!" He cradled her even more tightly. "I think that's just grand!" 

She lifted her head just enough for him to bend over to nuzzle her nose. "Like you're inside of me?" she sniffled. 

Roland's lips were warm on her forehead. "Like we've always been inside of each other..." 

Seated on a boulder by the Quinault River with his hiking clothes in tatters and his arms dripping blood, Roland had said to Etrix and her Warrior, "Life is certainly full of interesting experiences." From that very first day until the final one when his unselfish heart wore out, Roland made sure there were splendid experiences a-plenty for the people he loved. 

Her blink nipped a tear in its duct. Suspending her attention from Tibo seated in the back yard and engrossed in his trembling meditations, Etrix searched the singular presence of her mind. Even after half a century, she was still achingly aware of her separation from the Gift. She had accepted the perpetual silence in much the same way she had resigned herself to imposed infertility -- that no matter the cost, she'd made the right decision to leave the forest, to walk away forever beside the man who had claimed her heart. 

But, oh... The caress of a child's first breath, to account for miniature fingers and toes, to place her lips against a downy newborn head... 

She stared at Tibo, entranced. He was her natural nephew. And, surrounding her were two Warriors, another Messenger, and a young man formerly of Council. A month prior, when a gruff little male -- his obtrusive demeanor set off by a sporty hat and an imitation leather coat -- rang her doorbell and introduced himself, Trixie's breath had caught in her throat. 

Fifty years without so much as a visitor from The Powers That Be and suddenly she didn't have enough room for them all! 

A voice behind her shrieked "MINE!" bringing Trixie's attention back to the room and to her nine hungry wards. She turned and rejoined the activity in her big, bright, wonderful kitchen. 

"Bong," Trixie admonished while calmly driving two Hot Wheels off the oak tabletop and into a pocket of her apron, "no toys while you're eating." The 10 year-old narrowed his almond-shaped eyes and opened his mouth but after Trixie tossed "Anyone else got toys?" into the air with a juggler's flair, he fell silent. 

The other children took renewed interest in their plates. 

"How come Gale gets to drink soda for breakfast?" Chandi asked while her discontented nose crinkled above a plastic glassful of milk. 

Gale looked up, wide-eyed and red-handed. Sweeping past, Trixie snatched the still unopened soda from her hand and set it back into the refrigerator door. "But, I've been wanting a Coke since last night when you said I couldn't have one, Trixie," Gale argued. 

After shoving a glass of milk in the Warrior's hand, Trixie affectionately ticked the tip of Gale's nose with her bent pinkie finger. "You can have one this afternoon after the kids are gone." 

"Yeah, and I bet you'll probably figure out some way I can't have one then, either," Gale burbled into the liquid while dragging her feet and disgruntlement to the window. 

"You're taking the kids out?" asked Angel from the safety of the one spot in the kitchen that was morning-sun free. He counted to ten; the ten little discs he'd flipped over were golden brown and identical in size. The same couldn't be said for the children in the lively room, each of varying heights and personalities but still sharing one exact trait. 

Ravenous hunger. 

Kevin, age four, wasn't tall enough to see onto the stove's griddle top, but that technicality didn't deter his interest. He waited patiently to inspect the latest stack of pancakes Angel lifted onto the serving plate. "Is that ten?" he inquired. 

Angel nodded. His face was as serious as his diminutive overseer's. Satisfied, Kevin smiled brightly and gave his best thumb's-up. 

While receiving the platter, Trixie playfully pinched Kevin's pudgy cheek. "The kids are going to the Discovery Center with a few of my former Foster kids," she said in response to Angel's question. 

"Do you think that's safe?" 

Taken aback, Trixie sighted the vampire, cross-browed. "Safe?" 

"You know," Angel dipped out another 10 pancakes, "sending them off with other people without you there." 

Keeping the tone of her voice below the sizzle of the batter on the aluminum grill hardly subdued Trixie's umbrage. "Barring a force majeure, Angel, they'll all be fine. Lynda, Kent and Gretchen have been adults for years, with good jobs and families of their own." 

"Still..." Angel met the woman's eyes, her brown irises glowing coppery with anger. "You need to be careful. They're just little kids." 

A nod of her head brought with it, understanding. Her consideration smiled down upon Kevin. "They're *modern* little kids, Angel. They're smart and they all have instructions to stay with one another. Even with Lynda, Kent, and Gretchen -- whom I trust implicitly." 

He glanced over the plate to the table of children before accepting Trixie's experienced decision. "How many more pancakes?" he asked, smoothly changing the subject. 

Trixie patted his arm with her free hand and offered a heartening, "We'll know that when they stop eating." 

Relieved that the friction between him and Trixie had been successfully negotiated, Angel regarded his assistant with a smile. "I bet you're hungry, Kevin," he suggested. But the child's reply -- two arms tightened above Angel's right knee, soured the taste of accord. Kevin's unguarded heart laid siege; its gentle meter volleyed an unwitting pizzicato upon Angel's dormant peroneal artery. 

"-- in here!" Cordy shouted, pushing the kitchen's swinging door open wide. 

The door sounded "ooof!" on its hinges and had nearly closed before Wesley nudged it inward with his shoulder. While walking his and Cordy's plates to the sink, he coolly readjusted his glasses. 

"Angel! The pancakes are the bomb and a half!" Cordelia exclaimed. A flick of her wrist banished several brown curls behind her shoulder. "And it looks like you made a friend," she added, plucking at Kevin's soft golden locks with her fingers. 

After Kevin buried his face in Angel's thigh, Cordy tugged on his ear. The little boy's blush disappeared into his collar. 

"How come you're looking like that?" she asked, returning her attention to Angel. 

Angel bent his eyes from the pancakes, down at his clothes. He frowned. "Don't I always look like this?" 

Cordy poked his waist and shook her head. "Like this," she said. Squinting hard, she leveled hazel-eyed intensity at the cooktop. "How come you're looking at the pancakes like you're afraid they're gonna run away with the spatula?" 

"Hey!" Angel attacked the griddlecakes, flipping them over with preternatural speed. "You have to turn them over at the right time or else they get too brown or not brown enough. I almost ruined these, Cordelia," he griped. Just to make sure that wasn't the case, he tapped at a few with the tip of his finger. 

"Guy, Angel. Just when I thought I've already seen you at your most anal, you surprise me. Who knew pancakes? What else you got up your sleeve to obsess about?" she teased, peeling back his unbuttoned cuff. Her faced conveyed immediate appreciation. "Check you out! You're finally wearing that silver bracelet I got you. Who needs art supplies when there's so much fab jewelry in the world?" 

After double-checking the clasp, Cordy twisted the heavy links once around. Angel self-consciously retrieved his wrist and smoothed his sleeve in place. 

"Cordelia, sweetheart, would you mind getting more syrup?" Trixie asked, presenting the empty platter for the next serving. 

"No big!" Cordy consented, sprightly proceeding to the open pantry. 

The hostess offered an encouraging smile. "One more serving and I think you'll be finished, Angel. It's been a treat for the kids not to have to eat hot cereal, although --" 

"Cordelia?" Angel murmured. The spatula tumbled from his grip and clattered onto the griddle. "CORDELIA!" he shouted, whipping around. His impulsive step spilled Kevin into the flood of the vampire's natural enemy. 

Pandemonium manifested. Kevin's frightened wail was a siren pitched high above Trixie's call for "TIBO!" and Angel's demand for "WESLEY!" 

Snapping to attention, Wesley heeled away from chatting with Gale at the window to see a panicking Angel trapped behind the barrier of sunlight. Warrior and Watcher quickly accessed the situation -- Wesley bolted for the small enclosure off the kitchen at Angel's direction, Gale yanked the cord on the window shades. 

From inside the pantry, came the thunderous rattle of avalanching boxes and cans. Everything within the kitchen followed suit -- glasses dropped onto the table, eating utensils rained down into plates, the bank of blinds clacked shut against the panes, effectively snuffing out the cheery aura. 

Tibo raced in through the door, throwing it closed behind him and, in nearly the same motion, snatched Kevin off the floor. Herding the children, he stampeded them into the next room. 

Powdered with sugar down the side of one leg, Wesley appeared at the pantry alcove with a very disoriented Cordelia crooked by his arm. Angel met them and took over, catching Cordelia just as her knees buckled. She lost the last of her wobbly balance before reaching the table. 

Wesley, Gale, Trixie, and even Angel held their breaths while waiting for Cordelia to recover. Her entire face wept; perspiration streamed from her pores. Her breathing was shallow, as if the effort would cause her to burst. 

"Cordelia?" Angel whispered after one eternal minute. 

Cordy barely opened her eyes. She winced. "Any kids?" she choked. The four heads shaking 'no' gave her the permission she needed to puke. 

"Oh, God," Gale petitioned almost too softly for Angel to hear. Pale, nervous, and cloaking their mouths with their hands, she and Trixie eerily resembled Cordelia's post-Vision condition. 

The door swung open on a good-natured laugh. "Gretchen and Kent got here just in time, I guess. All the kids -- " Tibo stopped mid-sentence, finally noticing the stricken facial expressions. 

"Vision," said Trixie, crossing his path on her way for the mop. 

Tibo approached quietly. Avoiding her splatter, he knelt at Cordelia's feet and bowed. He placed his forehead to her knees. "La'am," he rasped, awestricken. "They Who Speak have spoken to you." 

While Wesley relayed a glass of juice from Gale, Cordelia seemed oblivious to his intensive scrutiny. He looked to Angel for an answer, only to find Angel looking to him for the same. He shrugged and, without thinking, reached for Cordelia's cheek; but a conscious thought stayed his hand. "Don't try to speak, Cordelia. Just relax," he soothed. 

Cordelia sipped. She scrunched her nose. "This tastes like a matchbook," she royally complained. 

Wesley swallowed his smile, but his dimples eked out nonetheless. Angel took that as a sign to relax, further relieved when Cordelia reached for his palm. 

And spread it across her forehead. 

Recovering more slowly than usual, Cordy leaned with both elbows behind her. "Did I happen to mention 'ow', already?" 

"I believe we all caught the inference from your prior upheaval," Wesley joked, taking a seat by her side. Adjusting the notepad on his knee and uncapping a pen, he smiled to himself, then at Gale. 

Angel cleared his throat and raised his brows, signaling for the presentation to begin. 

"So, what's this about a matchbook?" Wesley prompted, dismissing the indistinct unease he detected in Gale. The Warrior had refused to glance in his direction, preferring to stare at Cordelia as if past experience could fathom the Vision from the depths of the young woman's head. 

Cordelia batted her drowsy lashes. "Like when you light a match?" 

"Sulfur," Wesley said, writing the word simultaneously. 

"And she's burning up," Angel intimated. Despite the circumstances, it felt nice to have Cordelia exchange his one palm for the other. The chill-depleted hand he covertly balled into a fist beneath his long shirttail. 

Tibo rested back on his heels. "You *saw* your vision," he hushed, his voice quavering. But his adoration was curtailed by a pinch that pulled him sideways. 

Leaning against Tibo's ear, Gale sneered, "You ever think that's, maybe, why they're called *visions* in the first place?" 

"Cave," Cordelia interjected. She stopped short of taking another swig of juice, unwilling to risk intensifying the flavor on her tongue. 

Trixie offered a plastic bottle. "Children's aspirin is all I have in the house. Maybe just take an extra one?" 

Cordy chomped four instead. "Mmmm. I remember these. Orangey, not sulfuric!" 

"Well, well," Wesley said, tapping the pen against the pad with each word. "Adjectiving with chemicals. Someone's feeling better." 

The Seer coughed at Wesley's comment and, after he flinched aside, she grinned wickedly. Unfortunately, the fake-out sapped her strength. A lazy blink later, she inspected Wesley's handwriting. "Six people, I think. Hard to count." 

"You might not be able to see them all," Etrix ventured, unable to repress the undertones of her jealousy. The desire to be a vessel for Those Who Speak, to be a source of comfort for Cordelia, riled the ex-Seer's emotions. Worthless to assume either task, Etrix took to cleaning up instead. 

As Trixie reached for a plate, Cordy offered "thanks" with her glass. Concentrating, she continued, "Maybe seven? Big and little jackets. Not all the same size." 

Gale came around and leaned over Wesley's shoulder, flipping the pad back to the previous day. "That could be one of the camping parties," she said directly into the top of his head. When his chin tilted up, she expanded, "The teenagers in one of the families." 

Cordelia sniffed. She rubbed her sleeve under her nose. 

Its purpose spent, Angel reclaimed his hand and took a turn with, "Smells like?" 

"Like that janitorial supply closet at Sunnydale High." 

"Mildewy." Wesley nodded. Insulted by Angel's wide-eyed inquisition, he defended his deduction. "It was a rather quite pronounced odor, Angel. And as many times you visited that campus, you can't tell me that *you* couldn't smell it." 

"Hey, I wasn't making accusations..." Angel yielded. 

"Cave. Sulfur. Hot. Location-wise that would give us... A mineral spring?" Wesley asked, hoping someone would answer. Even projecting his gruffest deportment couldn't combat the look on Angel's face. It was a wonder how such blankness could express so much emotion. There was a well of affection in those deep brown eyes; restrained humor tipped up the corners of those quirky lips. And to make matters worse, Cordelia sat there attempting her version of the same. Wesley swore at himself for possessing the thoughts that Cordelia's present debilitation left her unable to do much more than present the faintest of smiles. 

Alone, Angel and Cordelia had formidable personalities; together, their tag-teamed adorability could pummel Wesley's reserve. 

"Lo'woroo," Trixie interrupted, sponging crumbs off the table and into her hand. "Sacred to the Monya who migrate from the tundra during the winter and settle in the mineral caves near the rainforest." 

"Used to migrate," Gale corrected, forking scraps from one plate onto another. "The Monya were annihilated a dozen years ago." 

Trixie ceased her activity out of respect, sadly recalling, "But, they were so peaceful." 

"Peacefulness is what got 'em killed, Trixie," the Warrior-in-residence replied matter-of-factly. After stacking the last of her plates, she straightened up and yanked on the hem of her tee-shirt. She strode past Tibo and grazed him deliberately. "Looks like this assignment is all yours now, Angel," was sniped on her way out of the room. 

Strong enough to assist her nephew to his feet, Trixie was unable to hold back his retaliatory pursuit. 

"So, we'll get to Lo'woroo and do this," Angel asserted. He stood and took Cordelia's elbow. 

Trixie explained, "But, this isn't someplace you can drive to. You'll have to hike and it won't be easy." 

After assisting Cordelia to her feet, Angel steadied her. "Just show me where," was met with a pat on his arm. The Seer tapped her forehead in reply. 

Within the span of one moment, all of Angel's supernatural fortitude had been vanquished. The vampire crumpled to the bench. "Nooooooooooooooo." Shaking his head, in the throes of a disagreeable fugue, Angel moaned against the portents of the summons. 

Cordy tugged his ear, assuaging, "It's OK, Angel. I've led us before; I can lead us again. After all, practice can only make me more perfect!" 

Trixie laid a consoling hand on the vampire's shoulder. Grateful for a role, she told Wesley, "I'll start making the arrangements." 

-0- 

Cordelia just wanted to sleep and Wesley had helped her upstairs. The Vision had left her so exhausted she'd climbed between the covers without removing her shoes. She didn't stir as he untied her laces and tucked her toes away. While exiting their room, he spied Angel in the half-shadows of the staircase leading up to the attic. The faintest rustle of fabric and the slightest click of the door, before Wesley had fully turned away, informed him Angel had slipped inside. 

To keep watch. 

Descending the stairs, Wesley heard the Warrior and her Messenger shouting in anger. Each step closer to the library brought the calamity of their situation to bear. 

"THERE HAD TO HAVE BEEN VISIONS LEADING UP TO THIS ONE, TIBO!" Gale screeched. 

Tibo, immobile as a stone sculpture, stood resolute against the tempest of Gale's accusation. Except for the insolence he wore with smug satisfaction, he was unemotional. 

"Aren't you the least bit embarrassed that the Powers That Be gave *your* Vision to Cordelia?" she taunted. 

The tirade made Tibo turn inward and he took on the aspect of someone upon whom great wisdom had been bestowed. With his head bowed respectfully, he scathed, "Obviously less so than you are to have your assignment delegated to Warrior Angel." 

The thunderous clap of Gale's hand across Tibo's face unharnassed the storm of their contention. The Messenger lurched at his Warrior, but Gale pivoted out of his direct onslaught. As he stumbled past, she slammed her clasped fists down onto the base of his spinal column. Tibo lost control of his motor skills and thudded onto the floor. 

"Gale!" Wesley wrangled her backwards. Upon realizing how easily he'd accomplished that feat, he knew he'd done the equivalent of interrupting an archer. Gale had been a weapon at the ready, set to release, and he hadn't considered the stupidity of positioning himself in front of her target. 

Shaking, she shied away from Wesley and struggled with her reflexes. While watching Tibo slink away, she pelted him with her thoughts. "I think..." She stepped to the window but couldn't see past the water spots dotting the glass. "I suspect that Tibo's been holding onto his Visions." 

Alarmed, Wesley rushed her. His authoritative mien was diminished somewhat by the concerned tilt of his head. "Can he do that?" 

Gale nodded. "I used to." 

Repulsed by the connotations of her confession, he moved away. "Dear God. Surely Cordelia's not -- " 

"No! No!" Her hand waved vehemently. "It's different with demons, Wesley. The Powers that Be just snatch you and make you this... This THING and then they pair you with some piece-of-shit cretin who only has one basic thought process." Uneasiness shaded her unspoken designation of that single-mindedness as "kill." 

"And was there no other way you could voice your dissent?" 

The disdain in his voice cut deeply. She cocked an accusatory thumb at herself. "Demon of Discord, remember? For one thing, I HATED being fixed in this dimension; but they needed my hard copy to retain the Gift. 

"So, I blew off that first... Year." She snorted. "What Tibo and I are doing? *Nothing* compared to me and Werlo. I finally got him killed," she said, astonished by the self-satisfactory tone in her admission even after 156 years. She dashed the relish from her voice to continue, "The PTB upped the pain-factor but they must have forgotten I'd been a Slayer. FUCK pain! And then, one day, I got the message. Boy, did I get the message." 

At his core, Wesley found her actions reprehensible. With one hand against the window frame for support, he listened in profile. "Corporal punishment?" he presumed. 

"Death Vision." 

She had paused long past the point of awkwardness, but Wesley didn't know what to ask. He knelt into the window seat and sat back against the framing, shifting sideways across the fluted wood in an effort to rub out his anxiousness. 

Gale used Wesley's movement as an invitation to join him. Seated as if to occupy only the cushion's corded edge, with her elbows on her knees, she hunched forward. 

There was a haunted aura about her, like the sheen of her immortality had finally begun to erode. For someone who had always been accomplished at twisting together the worst things to say, it wasn't so difficult to imagine that she'd have a difficult time forming thoughts with a vocabulary light on delicacy. "Sometimes, if you just begin with something basic," Wesley recommended. 

Or, when in doubt, return to the basics. "I guess I should thank Cordelia for reminding me how glad I am to *not* be a Messenger anymore." 

While waiting for her rancor to subside, Wesley sighed at the view. "If I'm understanding you correctly, you're saying that the Powers That Be are punishing Cordelia." Her sorrowful eye-contact denied his assumption and he exhaled, grateful. 

"I do think the Vision was meant for Tibo, though." 

"Hardly making the situation any less worse, especially if Cordelia witnessed these campers being killed." 

"Slaughtered." To allay his horror, she rubbed his knee. "Nine times out of ten, this many victims would be slaughtered, Wesley. But, Cordelia's recollection was too vivid. I think that she may have seen -- but still hasn't seen -- the aftermath." 

"The bodies would have been stacked, hence her inability to make an accurate count," he said, disgusted with how clinical his reasoning sounded in his ears. 

Gale stroked the drapery. "She's amazing though, Wesley. When I finally settled down, it took years to pick up the details that she manages." 

Proudly, Wesley accepted the compliment for his associate. "After having her mind seized by the Forces of Darkness, Cordelia was imprisoned by a series of unremitting Visions. The crash course must have done wonders for her ability because, since recovering, she's been incredibly focused." 

"But she'll still never be able to relate to you or Angel everything she receives." To Wesley's perplexity Gale expanded, "Most of what a Messenger sees is inexplicable." 

-0- 

Tibo, perched on the porch stoop, pulled a hydrangea's bouffant cluster apart cup by cup. "Cordelia is incredible," he said as his Da'ur took a seat beside him. "The Gift lives within her." 

"She saw their deaths, Tibo," Etrix snapped. 

Puzzled, Tibo stopped his activity and faced her. "The Powers That Be do not send such messages." 

With her sandaled foot, Trixie scuffed the maimed petals aside. "They do, Tibo. And, they did. I don't know if Cordelia saw them die, but she knows that they're dead." 

Pausing, he mulled over the connotations of her statement before replying, "The Prism did not say that they were dead; so, I will not believe you." 

"You stupid boy -- " 

The fingers on Trixie's throat crimped any further comment. Locked jaw notwithstanding, Tibo's words were clear. And hostile. "You are still dear to my father, but that gives you no right to speak to me in this way." 

Striking off Tibo's grasp, Trixie retaliated with a verbal drubbing, "Six years, Tibo, and you've yet to have a complete Vision? You can fool your elders, you can fool my dear brother, but you cannot fool me or Gale. The Powers That Be aren't talking *to* you, idiot; they're speaking *through* you. But, you're too pig-headed to listen and learn from those more experienced." 

Rearing back, he cackled, "Listen to you or Gale? Both of you whores and with your Gifts reassigned?" 

Quaking lower teeth forewarned a tremulous flush. Trixie, already glowing rosy, blazed fuchsia. "How dare you say such things! When you have *no* understanding of either situation." 

"I know what I see so I do have sight, Da'ur." His bottom lip peeling from over his upper enraged Tibo's normally placid features. "I will fulfill the direct wishes of the Powers That Be and They will reward me. Perhaps even allow me to serve with the Warrior Angel." 

Shaking her head in disbelief, Trixie laughed cynically. "You've admitted your distaste for humanity to me any number of times, yet you aspire to cling to a vampire, Tibo? Your double-standards are insane." 

"He is more than a vampire, Da'ur," Tibo said, his eyes respectfully hooded. "Through him, the Messenger Doyle achieved Har'a'un." 

Howling, Trixie swiped tears from the creases of her eyes. "Martyrdom? Is that what you're angling for?" 

Without warning, she took a fistful of hair on either side of his head and yanked him to attention. "If you want to be a martyr, Tibo, I think that Gale would be more than happy to oblige you. But first, that would mean you'd have to present a full Vision, wouldn't you?" she scoffed. 

He shoved the matron away, stomped upright, and regarded her with contempt. "You mock me, Da'ur, fine. But one day soon you will have to honor my success." 

-0- 

The tufted cushion in the projecting bay window provided seating for a half-circle view of the hillside neighborhood where the more prominent, modern homes abutted the few remaining Queen Anne Victorians. Still, what the older homes lacked in numbers, they made up for with eccentricities -- steeply pitched roofs with scalloped gables and castle turrets, an asymmetry of windows mounted into fish-scale siding, all with elaborate brickwork -- finished-off with a chimney totem or two. 

Beyond the authentic colors of sienna, hunter, and ochre and the more brightly painted houses of periwinkle, coral, and plum, Puget Sound shimmered light blue and the apricot tones of the false sunset sky. Mount Ranier's summit rose above an ermine ruff of clouds, topped with a snowy crown glinting silver and gold. 

The last of the commuter ferries criss-crossed the harbour like busy, hive-bound bees, their ribbon wakes chopped to bits by knifing waves. There was something nostalgic about the activity; the vessels could be conveying horses and carriages as easily as automobiles. Sea-commerce cities were fascinating places to be, especially when one had a vantage as spectacular as the one Wesley shared with Gale. He'd been to the Port of Long Beach and he'd visited San Pedro Harbor, but compared to a city where the populace used waterways for day-to-day travel, Los Angeles' industrial seaports possessed little charm. He smiled to himself and said a silent prayer -- that the City of Seattle would never find the term "chunnel" worthy of exploration. 

Far-Northern summers meant everlasting sunsets and, unlike the sun's morning appearance when she burst on the scene fully radiant, she took her time shedding vibrancy in the eve. Wesley's few favorite childhood memories were of magickal hours-long dusks in his Grandfather's garden before, in the blink of one eye, twilight fell like a thief. 

Melancholy triggered his lips. 

She waited. And watched him. The ten minutes he'd been silent felt like an hour. Wesley sat in the window with his right leg drawn to his chest, his cheek resting on his knee. Gale wanted into his thoughts, but he hadn't extended an invitation. So she waited. Waited. 

And watched him. Engaged by his long, dark lashes raising and lowering; endeared by his chest drawing in and out. It was summer and he was even paler than he'd been in the spring. It worried her to imagine him disregarding the privileges of humanity to mete out the requirements of associating with a vampire. 

He seemed more fragile than ever -- almost sickly. The idea of him lying in a hospital bed filled her with dread. But Wesley was here; close enough to touch the way she wanted to. And, on that impulse, she crept to him. 

As if he'd been waiting all along for her to make their decision, his arms opened wide. He enveloped her limb after limb, twining his legs around hers, securing her back against his chest. 

"That's why you can never go home after you've romanticized every other place you've ever been," Gale said, settling comfortably. "Every city reminds you of where you'd rather be." 

His chin, adrift, floated along the fall of her mane. "Like every person reminds you -- " he spoke against her nape. 

Unsure, she froze for a moment until warmed by the familiarity of his touch -- cautious then frenetic inquisitions traveling the length of her arm, his left forearm slithering around her waist. Making presumptions, his fingertips ducked beneath the hem of her shirt and traversed the bungee-corded waistline of her shorts. His hands reintroduced themselves to her form. Politely or with ravishing tenacity, tentative or subtly demanding, Wesley thusly plied claim. 

Removing his glasses, he tucked them into a corner of the window-box for safety. There were no sights to be seen except her; no view except the landscape of her flesh washed with sunglow. This female in his arms... He knew her body before the first sensation of her flesh beneath his touch. She was supple and she was intense. Abruptly, his arm clinched tight across her midriff. 

She gasped. His swollen familiarity pressed insistently against her spine. Her hand drifted to his face, cupped his cheek. He set his lips to her wrist, traced her palm with his nose, explored the whorls of her fingertips with the grooves of his lips. 

His thumb gently stroked the under swell of her beast until his fingertips, picking aside the petal of bra, plucked its tender bud. His insouciant mouth suckled the tip of her littlest finger and puckered up and down the line of her throat. 

"Seattle is so pretty. Do you like it here?" he murmured. Looping a few strands of hair away from her ear, his finger nearly slipped free of its noose before he relooped. He slipped and relooped again and again. 

"Living here?" Gale asked, arching her back as he nudged aside her outseam to caress her hidden curves. "Maybe if I wasn't so alone," she ventured, teeth punishing her lip for allowing the remark to escape. 

His tea-tinged breath in her ear -- and its irregularity, so him. The scent of his masculinity -- pungent and warm, enhanced by the library aroma of stability and wisdom. 

"Hmmm?" she murmured, lightheaded and soaring like an osprey above the shore. She ground between his legs with her shoulder blade cleaving the center of his chest. Bringing her face to his, her lashes whisked his chin. 

Perspiring, Wesley paced his breathing. His mouth lingered on the crescent of her cheek, his moistened lips parted for conquest. He bent forward to whisper -- 

"Hmmmm?" she moaned, fingering his teeth. Tasting the back of his hand until it had traveled far too low -- Oh! far too low -- to kiss. 

The slivers of his nails, traveling the length of her elongated throat. Her lips, so near. He whispered again... 

Gale turned on her hip and lifted her mouth to meet that lilting voice. His "What time will the children be home?" was hers to consume. The moment -- their moment, his breathing, her breath nearly one. So near to being one... 

Routed by the course of a deafening cry. 

Even before Angel boomed his name from Cordelia's room, Wesley had reset his glasses and jostled Gale aside. Fluidly, he rose without hesitation and hastened up the stairs. 

Deflated, Gale sat up on her knees, waiting until even Wesley's sound had disappeared before she moved. "I'll find Cordy a sedative," she sighed. 

-0- 

Nightfall was oppressive, as oppressive as the atmosphere inside the room where Angel had claimed the edge of Wesley's bed to focus on Cordelia. It didn't matter that there was barely anything outside to see; Wesley stared into the immense black void and followed a lone freighter's progress towards Bainbridge Island. His hard swallow washed the last flavor of Gale down his throat. 

Outside the door, children galloped after one another in the hallway. Giggling, they waited nearby before racing back from whence they came. 

Wesley cast his eyes at the floor and, before turning around, made a mental note to pick up all the gold-leafed pasta Angel had picked off a wall-piece. "She's been quiet for hours, Angel. I think we should both get some rest," he suggested. 

Angel's eyelids were clenched. "We were watching TV and she screamed like that, Wesley." 

Wesley threw his eyes to the ceiling. Returning to the window, he discovered the vessel had powered away that quickly. No doubt, he thought, in fear of Angel's retelling. 

Making a taffy-pull of the pillow, Angel kneaded and stretched and punched. "Yeah, I figured, adulterous transvestite makeovers is really stretching it for programming content, even for Ricki. But Cordelia wouldn't stop shaking and -- " 

Unconfined down sifted from his fingers onto the floor. "Did you bring the Scroll?" 

With his forehead cradled between his middle finger and thumb, Wesley rubbed at his temples. "An aftershock of her earlier vision doesn't require the Scroll, Angel." 

Springing to his feet, the vampire paced to the door. "And what's taking Trixie so long with the arrangements? We need to get this over with and get Cordelia out of here." 

"Angel? Stop. And, please, just sit down." Relinquishing his lookout, Wesley kicked goose feathers and pasta under his bed and removed his second pillow for safety. "Trixie doesn't have to hurry. I told you, the campers are dead. If you don't remember hearing me the first time, please listen now." 

Angel stilled. He twisted violently and leveled his irritation at the ex-Watcher. "Good. Then we can leave." 

"Did you just hear yourself?" asked Wesley, abhorred. 

Tipping an ear toward his chest, Angel listened. "Still silent," he reported. 

Irate, Wesley flung his pillow at the headboard. "You joke, Angel; but we're here for a reason." 

"Pardon my lack of insight if I haven't figured out what that's supposed to be. Visioning dead rescuees, well..." Two fingers tapped Angel's temple. "At least in L.A., that's not the way the program works!" 

Wesley reached over the clock-radio and flicked the lamp to its night bulb. "It's late, Angel. And, I really don't feel like arguing with you. Tomorrow, I'll make a map of our route and, I'm assuming that Trixie is trying to get us gear for however long we'll be in the forest." 

With the room dimmed, it took on an unhealthy ambience. Regretting his dousing decision, Wesley returned to the window. "You realize, Angel," he finally spoke, blind to his own reflection, "that with Cordelia in the lead, this entire excursion is going to have to occur during the day." 

Taking the foot of Cordelia's bed, Angel proclaimed, "I can manage." It was the fervid roll of her head giving him niggling doubts of just what he was capable of handling... 

... 

He couldn't catch his breath. Wheezing, he couldn't stop stumbling. His brother had taken hold of his arm and was practically dragging him across the pasture. 

"C'mon, Liam!" said he. Launching forward, he gripped the yew's first branch, swung his legs up and over and promptly fell back to offer his arms. "This first one's the hardest, but you can make the rest of the way on your own." 

Liam stared at the upside-down boy whose dark brown curls were springing in all directions. He wanted to say 'no', but all Liam could do was gasp. He couldn't even protest after his brother snatched him up by the underarms. 

Coaxing, "Take it, Liam," after Liam placed his tiny hands onto the gigantic limb Middle _Donn_ reached down. Grabbing Liam's waistband, he hiked the much smaller boy into the tree. "Ready?" he asked. 

Liam coughed once, twice, and began to follow. 

The older boy made it seem so effortless. Taking each branch, finding a foothold, he had memorized each knob and outcropping. Every so often -- not to make sure that his brother was following because that was a given -- he lent a hand upwards. 

Liam sat on the highest branch with his eyes closed and his arms barely hugging the massive trunk. He was tired -- so sleepy, breathing open-mouthed and sweating beneath his woolen pullover. His yawn and a swallow interrupted his panting. 

At long last, he opened his eyes. Yawning again, he looked around... 

The tears were involuntary. 

"Liam. What?" His brother's concerned face hovered nose-close. 

Liam's hard blink blurred his vision. "S... s... sc... ared," he stammered, sealing his eyes and grinding his face into the bark. "Too hi-igh!" he sobbed. 

Graced by meadow song, the silence between them lasted too long. The frightening thought that faeries had arrested his brother for trespassing bolstered Liam's eyes wide. 

But his brother had never left his side. With the corners of his mouth tipped -- one high, one low, he was considering The Bens. "I'm sorry, Liam. I thought... " The look on his face encouraged Liam to follow his determined gaze seaward. Up on his knees, one arm bracketed his little brother. He whispered, "Do you see? The Indies, Liam. And beyond them, the Americas." 

With his courage faltering, Liam squinted and shook his head. "I see a schooner with her jib all in tatters. And the island." He looked into his brother's face for approval. Impulsively, he smoothed the soft, freckled cheek, confessing, "I can never see as far as you get to see, _Athairín_." 

Smiling mischievously, the older boy's teeth snagged his lower lip. He tilted Liam's head past an evergreen branchlet. "Maybe you're still too small, but I know you can at least see to Scotland. You can see that far, can you not?" 

Liam, loathe to disappoint, nodded his head affirmatively. 

Pleased, his brother plopped back without looking. Fearlessly straddling the limb, his long legs swung to and fro. "So, first you'll visit the Scots and then who will be next?" 

Liam shrugged. A brisk wind chilled the moisture on his skin and he shivered violently. His still-streaming tears felt like snow on his face. "First I want to go home," he cried. 

Carefree hands pushed the hair out of Liam's eyes; gentle kisses blotted the torrents from his cheeks. A voice reassured, "I keep forgetting that you're not nine, too. And, I'm sorry." 

"But, I am getting bigger," Liam argued, more afraid he'd start being left behind. 

"You are getting bigger. You're almost bigger than me!" 

"That's not true!" Liam sniffled. He pinched the toe of his boot. "See, I still got wads of stuffing!" But his brother didn't see; he'd scrambled onto a branch. 

"C'mon, Liam, you wee mouse. The view is grand from this one. Look!" he shouted, swinging his offered hand to point into the distance at the advancing dark speck. "It's Da's surrey." 

Through ceaseless tears, Liam shook his head vigorously. He looked into the boy's dark brown eyes sparkling with daring. Adamantly holding onto the tree's trunk, Liam complained through his chattering teeth, "Too high and too far out. Come back. You might fall if you stay." Then, timidly, he unwrapped one arm from his support and held out his tiny hand, even though he knew they weren't close enough. But, still... 

"Liam!" The reproach was lilting, as laughter bubbled from deep within his free-spirited core. He was always laughing, this one, as if life could hold such charm. 

The wind howled across the field. It tickled the yew, spiriting a few black-green needles away. 

"Pleeeeeeease!" Liam pleaded. Wiping away tears with the heel of his palm put something in his eye. Relentless terror wouldn't allow for a breath. 

A laughing shush, "Liam." In response, the tree jiggled. 

"Come back!" Liam wailed. 

A tremor. A simple snap. With gaping eyes, the older brother turned to the younger. 

"No. No. No," Liam chanted. "No, no -- " 

A creak became a long, pitching moan. The limb croaked the first notes of a Bean Sidhe's lament. 

"LIAM!" his brother shouted over the yawing ruckus. "LIAM!" 

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Little fingers strained to be long enough, but they weren't. Not strong enough to hold the shearing limb to the trunk, he reached out as far as he could. "Please, please," Liam whimpered -- 

And then, silence. Nothing. No wind. Not the sea, nor the hooves of a horse. The tree held its caterwauling and waited... 

Waited... 

Liam's brother faced West. "Promise me, Liam, you'll sail?" His features, so handsome, were serene. So mature. "I'm so glad you were mine," he whispered sincerely, will all the love in his heart. All the love in the world. He flicked a kiss from his lips and smiled the way he always had smiled, just for his brother. 

Within the beat of their hearts... 

One pattered no more. 

The smiling boy, with his arms open wide and heavenly gaze deeply hollow, lay upon his wooden raft, adrift on an emerald sea. Continuing to offer his 6 year-old palm, Liam was amazed to find it suddenly large enough to cover the entire odd lay of a body... 

... 

Shay's voice faded in and out, carried on the breeze. Cold words. Daytime fading, it was so cold. "Best you get home with the little one, _Donn_. I saw the Sister pass over an hour ago. It should have been you with the news for your wife." 

His father's chin was so hard on the top of his head. But, he didn't know that he was hurting his littlest boy. And, his breath wasn't right -- or else that was the smell brought out by the heavier drizzle on his sunny-day -- not his rainy one -- woolen coat. They weren't warm; the coat wasn't warm. They were wet and they were shivering. And his father's chin hurt his head. 

"What if..." the faint voice wasn't familiar, "...everything we've been doing?" His father's hold began to loosen, one arm less sturdy than the other. He struggled to bind his son to his chest, wringing the lapels around them both. But he was trembling like the tree had trembled. And his teeth were making the same kinds of sounds. 

"Let me have Liam, _Donn_," Shay hushed, reaching inside in an attempt to pull the boy away. 

Thankfully, Shay's request was refused. Liam was too weak to hold onto his father's neck; his weary head sloshed against the reeking shoulder. Water dribbled off his father's untidy hair. Their steamy sighs were stale. 

Liam recognized some of the faces in the field (his brother would have known everyone's names). All of them were far better dressed when they went to church on Sundays. The men stood in a circle, shaking their heads and taking turns drinking. There was a magnificent rug on the grass that someone had forgotten to smooth the lump from under. The men were all pretending that the lump wasn't there. 

"GOD!" The haggard man gasped and smacked the palm of his hand to his forehead. Staggering away, his footsteps were jarring. 

Shay kept pace at a trot. "Where are you off to?" He tried speaking casually, but there was a worried catch in his voice. He took hold of his friend's shoulder and finally got him to stop. "_Donn_!" 

Deep lungfuls of air came out as a roar, "OUR INHERITANCE IS TURNED TO STRANGERS, OUR HOUSES TO ALIENS!" He shuddered and moaned. "What, dear Lord? Why? Why? Be this Your will?" 

"_Donn_..." Shay cautioned. 

"All we've done, Shay? Be this a sign? Bedding with the English -- " 

Shay's massive hand clamped off the uncertainty. "Keep your voice low, _Deartháir_. These men," he flung a head of red curls at the workers, "would sooner garrote you than thank you for the food on their tables. To them, any contact with the English is pure treachery. What we do, we don't do lightly; we don't do for ourselves. You know that and that God of yours knows it, too." 

"But what it is we do... Our moral purpose..." Slumped against the tree, he lost purchase on his grief and nearly his son along with it. His head bowed penitently. "*His* will, Shay. Not ours. Not us to judge, nor us to punish." 

"Nor us to deliver?" The shorter man stroked away the sodden strands of hair screening the set of woeful, brown eyes. "I don't prescribe to your God any more than I prescribe to Mohammed or the Sidhe. What we do, we do for the good of the land and I refuse to believe any supreme authority would deem that as wrong." 

Eyes dropping to his Liam, his brows knit in confusion. "Then, why take my son?" he slobbered into the child's hairline. 

Shay's arms encircled the pair. "Take my words a heartless thing to say, but consider it better that your God took the _buachaill_ now rather than the English, later." 

-0-

[evancomo@netscape.net][1]   
[Angel's Journal][2]

   [1]: mailto: evancomo@netscape.net
   [2]: http://members.nbci.com/angeljournal/index.htm



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